Captains and pawns
by sian22
Summary: What turned Denethor from a loving husband and father to a cold and heartless leader who mistreated his younger son? Caught in a deadly game with Saruman, intent on seizing the One Ring for himself, the Steward and his sons discover the wizard will do anything to achieve his aims. A tale of the House of Hurin from Faramir's birth until after the War of the Ring,
1. Chapter 1

_'__Once he was as great as his fame made him. His knowledge was deep, his thought was subtle, ….and he had a power over the minds of others. The wise he could persuade, and the smaller folk he could daunt. ….There are not many in Middle-earth that I should say were safe, if they were left alone to talk with him,' _

_Aragorn speaking of Saruman, FOTR, JRR Tolkien._

_'__And I know, you were just like me with someone disappointed in you'_

_Numb, Linkin Park_

Ecthelion, Steward of Gondor, a man of rare patience and insight, was puzzled. Before him stood his Captains; his star and his son. Each so alike to the other as nearest kin; tall, grey-eyed, valiant, even kingly one would say of the Eagle of the Star and the Steward's Son. Yet at heart, so very different. Thorongil: a man modest and mysterious, calm and grave, come to Mindolluin out of Rohan, his name and birthplace hidden. Denethor, son of Ecthelion: a man proud and quiet, intense and ordered, a scion of Numenor. The Steward had asked their advice, not expecting either to pursue so intently such opposite counsels. '_Their discord grows deeper_,' he thought with dismay, _and somehow I am become the field they contest_.'

'My Lord, "explained Thorongil, shaking his head "I doubt not that Saruman is wise and learned, yet Mithrandir has traveled the lands of Umbar, and warns of our danger there, should the Enemy move. We cannot fight on three flanks, Gondor now can scarely cover two. We should remove the threat while we have the chance, and are not stretched. Give me a fleet and I will by stealth come down Anduin and destroy the Corsairs as they lie at anchor."

Denethor spoke low but insistently. "My lord, this is folly. Why waste our resources against an undeclared enemy? Why risk the men and the ships, when we have so few? Saruman is the greatest of their order and is wisest. Forget not that for that very reason, your forefather Beren gave him Orthanc and Isengard to guard the Gap of Rohan. Would you spurn his counsel?'

The Steward fingered the hilt of his great sword, worn always, a reminder of the trials to come and the need for strength. Thorongil stood, as ever grave and careful, watching Denethor warily. Denethor in his turn seemed to barely contain his contempt.

Thorongil made ready to withdraw. "I will leave you now my Lord. But ere I go, by my honour I entreat you, do not place your trust in Saruman. Do not forget he stayed his hand against Dol Gulder, to our regret."

Ecthelion, seeing regret in the Dunadan's eyes, of a sudden thought. "_He will leave me._ _He will quit the field._ _This is a game of chess for the Istari and my Captains are the pawns._ "Leave me to think on it, both of you. I will tell you my decision on the morrow."

In barely contained fury, the young Captain Denethor strode from the room. _How dare he?_ _Does his arrogance know no bounds?_ _Ever he believes that his the only right way._ He was not entirely sure if he meant Thorongil or his father. Pent up anger and energy made Denethor's stride lengthen, covering the distance to his rooms in mere minutes.

Already at this late hour Finduilas would have retired to the nursery with Boromir. He looked and there, curled beside the little bed, was his young wife asleep, a book on her lap and her head beside her son's on the pillow. His anger and frustration eased a little at the sight. Brushing the boy's fair straight hair from his forehead, he planted a kiss of good night. It was a wonder to him that he could love so intently his son, as still it was to love his mother. "Finduilas', he whispered low, kissing her check lightly. She stirred and looked up, her gentle smile catching his heart. "Come', he said, lifting her up in his strong arms, "you must to bed. You cannot sleep well there." Promising he would join her in a while, he turned to their study where the fire was still lit and he knew their guest still waited.

"What news of your council with the Steward, Captain? " Saruman the White sat in a low chair beside the fire, his face half hidden, his gnarled hands upon his staff.

Denethor's young face hardened, lines of disappointment setting around his mouth and eyes. He poured himself a glass of wine, and sighing, turned the goblet in his hands "He will follow Thorongil as he always does. I have done my best but it is ever too little to sway him. It has been long now since he has accepted often my counsel".

The wizard rose, his white robes shimmering, his face a picture of compassion. _A bitter man is vulnerable. _ "This is ill news for Gondor. Should she waste her defenses on a trifling southern land? Why does he follow Thorongil's counsel over yours?"

"He believes his advice is sound and together they have had many victories. Success is compelling is it not?" The young man's face was anguished. He loved his father yet.

_Good_. _Set the bait. _Saruman spread his hands in question. "My lord Denethor, I little understand why you are second always in your father's heart. This great captain whom he loves above all and has raised to high status, this Eagle, he has not your sight, your knowledge or your lineage."

Denethor shook his proud head. "It matters for naught to my father. He believes Thorongil has proven his worth in battle. He gives rank and reward to all so proven." The Steward's son tried for loyalty and reason, but the wizard checked him.

"But not to his own son." reminded Saruman, raising his aged hand and clasping the young man's arm in sympathy. "Be wary Captain. Thorongil is, I fear, a pupil of Mithrandir. Long I have suspected that the Grey Pilgrim works against me. They are natural allies, the Eagle and this lesser wizard, both seeking to supplant their betters." His smooth voice became velvet and low. "Mithrandir would supplant me, jealous of my place as head of the White Council. Thorongil would supplant you"

Denethor looked sharply up. "How so?"

_"_Do you know who he claims to be_?" _Saruman stood up to his full height, the firelight shadowing his eyes. _ "_I have long sight and have gleaned it. Chieftan of the Dunadain of the North, the direct heir, father to son, of Isildur. Elrond of Imladris accepts his claim. Thorongil desires to be King."

Denethor gasped. "Can this be proven?"

"No, the line of Elendil has long failed. He is an upstart and the Eldar, in their nostalgia for another time, are blinded. Cede this round to their plotting, Denethor, but fear not, we shall win the day after."

The wizard bade him good night, and left the brooding man to his thoughts. As Saruman walked in the empty forecourt, dark and still on that moonless night, he came upon the ghostly remains of the dead white tree. Reaching up, he snapped a small twig from one of its branches. Turning it over in his gnarled fingers he reflected on the game begun.

_Let your counsel be subtle but piercing. Theoden, Thengel's son, I will in time suborn, the Eorlingas are men of the twilight and easily moved. Denethor, Ecthelion's son I will suborn, though it be the harder test, he is a man of Numenor. At last the Age of the Elves and Dunadain fades and a new power rises. With patience I will come to direct it._


	2. Chapter 2

After that day, it was as Denethor foretold. Thorongil was given a fleet of ships and many men and so ambushed the Corsairs of Umber by night. A great victory was achieved, with little loss for Gondor. As the White City made ready to welcome him, the Captain tarried in Pelargir. There he sent a message of farewell to his Steward, saying "Other tasks now call me, lord, and much time and many perils must pass, ere I come again to Gondor, if that be my fate." And so the Eagle of the Star moved on to other labors, sailing across the wide Anduin and setting his road toward the Mountains of Shadow.

Many, seeking for answers where none lay, surmised he had withdrawn from the field ere his rival became his Steward. Ecthelion, bereft of the son of his twilight, mourned openly Thorongil's loss, but of necessity leaned the more upon his son.

Less often then did Mithrandir come to the city and the more did Saruman, consumed as he was in learning all that could be found about that which he desired. It was at this time he found the scroll of Isildur and first understood truly that which he sought.

With dismay, Denethor watched in those years as Ecthelion, now stooped with age and the weariness of his ninety-seven years, began to fail. A man of foresight, he perceived that in his time as Steward the last test should come, thus he strove to learn much of the Enemy and his designs from Saruman and his own study. The time for watchfulness was passing and so it was that into a city of hushed and anxious waiting, Finduilas was delivered early of a second son.

* * *

The Steward of Gondor, against all protest at the lateness of the hour and his need for rest, came at once see his new grandson. He entered the torch lit room and saw Finduilas settled in her bed, Denethor beside her. The healers, dropping their lord a curtsey, left at his signal, giving them a moment of peace.

"You are well my lady, and the babe?" he asked, noting with concern the marks of exhaustion on the lady's pale but beautiful face. Her dark hair for once unbound, lay damp upon the pillows.

"Yes, my lord, it was a trial, but it is over." she smiled tiredly, looked adoringly at her little one, contentedly asleep, unaware of the consternation he had caused. Impossibly small the baby seemed to Ecthelion, but perfectly formed, a shock of dark hair and long dark lashes on his cheeks. Such a perfect reward, he thought, for two days of pain and fear.

"She was very brave, father. He is little but the healers say he is strong enough." Denethor absently dropped a kiss on his wife's brow. Ecthelion marveled, thinking as ever that she brought out the best in his stern son.

"Do you wish to hold him?" Finduilas asked, sitting up a little straighter.

Delighted, Ecthelion took the little bundle from her hands, cradling him carefully. "Êl síla erin lû e-govaned vîn Dunadan" he blessed the babe. Searching his peaceful face the Steward thought saw something of his father, tempered with a fineness that must come from his mother. _Old fool, they all change so much, _he reminded himself_._ His heart was lost completely when the babe started in his sleep, tiny fingers fanning open in surprise. One hand gripped reflexively his finger and the babe's eyes opened. Ecthelion, in wonder, beheld in their dark blue a calm and focused gaze he did not expect with one so new. As the babe and his grandfather beheld each other for the first time, theirs was a recognition, two wise and happy souls, for the nonce, at one with the world.

"What have you named him?" his voice rough with emotion. _You are doting, old man_.

"Faramir " Finduilas explained, "We have another jewel."

"You are greatly blessed, my lady, as are we all." Ecthelion felt strangely bereft as he passed his grandson back to his father.

A knock came upon the door. A guard entered at their biding. "Captain, Lord Saruman is without, he has herbs for your lady". Denethor turned to his wife, "May I show him the little one?"

"Yes love" she said, "I would sleep now awhile, if you will return him to the nurse". Leaving Finduilas to her rest, they entered the sitting room beside.

* * *

In the hushed, expectant outer room, three once and future stewards of Gondor gathered, each Captain with their part own play upon the board. The grandfather to rebuild its defences, left idle after too long in decay; the father to hold against the gathering storm; drawing knowledge in to turn the oncoming tide; the son: to lift up and steady their salvation on his road. The Maia, come out of Valinor to aid the peoples of Middle-Earth, had strayed from his position, reshaping the future entrusted to him to preserve. He was the bishop but he would be king.

"My greatest congratulations to you Captain, on this happy eve." exclaimed the wizard "I am relieved to find they are both so well".

"As are we all, after all the hours and concerns." agreed the current Steward, gazing steadily upon their visitor. He found himself wary, uncertain of Saruman's haste to intrude upon the event.

"Indeed, I have brought some herbs of my own stock, to strengthen his lady mother. My heart was afeared that the trial last so long and difficult.

"Thank you for your consideration, lord" replied Denethor.

"What is the child to be called?"

"Faramir" explained his father, proudly.

"A noble name, his namesake was a valiant prince." Lying and flattery was reflexive to the wizard, even on so trivial a point. _An ill portent._ Sarumen considered to himself. _Why name the child for a prince who, disobeying his father, was slain in battle and so robed the throne of Gondor of an heir?_

Peering intently at the little one in Denethor's arms, he touched the baby's cheek with a gnarled finger, its skin rough against the down of the new. "I offer my blessing". Faarmir's eyes flew open and he gave a single mewing cry of protest.

_A fair and grey-eyed man sits in cloak and hood upon a wooden chair, a lamp beside, throwing shadows about the rough stone walls. He speaks low."__The One Ring that was thought to have perished from the world. And Boromir tried to take it…..and here in the wild I have you and a host of men at my call and the Ring of Rings."_

As if burned, the wizard drew back his hand, but as quickly schooled his features. "He is so little lords" he chuckled, "I am afraid to hurt him." As ever, he dissembled well, under the flowing robes his body trembled in fear.

Both grandsire and father laughed in their turn, at the sound and the thought of a boisterous reception to come. Ecthelion smiled ruefully "Yes, indeed, he is the tiniest babe I have seen. His big brother will have to be gentle with him when they meet on the morrow."

Smiling, the wizard took his leave, "I will leave you the herbs for the Lady Finduilas, my blessings again on the babe"

As he walked the torch lit corridors of the Steward's apartment, Saruman's mind was swiftly shifting strategies. For him a new pawn had been placed upon the opposing side. _Somehow the man this babe will become plays a part against my design. I will not let that happen._

* * *

Despite his small size the baby thrived, and Finduilas, though slow to heal, gained in health each day. Her husband worried that the wakeful baby tired her too much, but she would not have a wet nurse and insisted on caring for him herself. By summer the colour had returned to her cheeks and she delighted in her son, a quiet and happy child, intently observing everything around him, rarely fussy or difficult. If he would only sleep more, she wished, knowing it was not in his power to grant.

A routine settled into their days. They would almost always be in the gardens, Boromir playing nearly, at five just learning a few feints with a knife and set upon his first pony. "Look at me, Mama" he would call, pretending to parry the moves from a Harad captain, swooping in to plant a messy kiss on the baby's forehead and running back out to his battles. "Gentle Boromir, gentle" she would say, but Faramir was untroubled by the rough affection. His eyes ever would follow his big brother, hands and feet kicking in excitement.

"When is he going to be able to play Mama? Babies are a bit boring." She laughed. "Soon, love, soon."

As she came back in from the garden, the warm summer sun streaming through the rooms, Finduilas laid the baby down in the cradle by the bed. Her husband was dressing, his formal black uniform, a council meeting soon to start. He was a handsome man still, she thought. His black hair untouched by time, the intent grey of his eyes reflected in the silver tree upon the tunic.

"This always suits you so well, my lord," she smiled, smoothing the velvet across the broad expanse of his shoulders, her fine fingers lingering upon his ribs.

"Lady, surely it is too soon." He murmured, always embarrassed but thrilled by her forwardness. "I am now surrounded by men, I think I should like a daughter."

* * *

At midsummer festival the great and the good gathered in the city, and Denethor, once again, invited Saruman to attend. Throughout those days, Finduilas dressed in the clear Dol Amroth blue, diamonds at her throat and upon her brow, would be hostess to the city as Ecthelion tired easily. Boromir, bursting with pride in a little mail shirt, cloak and dagger made just for the occasion, strutted across the court, imitating his father's march, his grandsire in body, if not in personality. Faramir, nestled in his mother's arms, seemed a replica of his father. His body long and lean, and his eyes grey, although his face and temperament were his mother's. _At least there is something of Dol Amroth in one of my children_.

If those were sunny, happy days, the only uneasiness that came was when the lady would look up to find the wizard's eyes upon her. Or rather, she realized, betimes, it was Faramir he was looking at intently. A shiver of fear runs through her, although no waking dream of certain dread comes to her mind.

As the first of the many dinners began, and she and her lord stand in the receiving line, Boromir proudly in front, to welcome the guests. She sees with unease, the wizard come forward. Reaching out, Saruman cradles the baby's scalp, as he greets her lord.

Finduilas, her eyes unfocused and the room receded, shares the vision with the wizard. Hope unlooked for springs within her heart.

_Thorongil kneels beside the bed of her son, who lies at the brink of death, with one hand the Captain clasps his fevered hand and lays the other upon his brow. 'Faramir', he calls, fainter and fainter, again and again. The young man opens his eyes and there is a light of love and understanding in them. __'My lord, you called me. I come. What does the king command?"_

Saruman decides to act. _The babe has thrived. Is it too much to hope that that his great oaf of a brother would drop him? His mother guards him too closely. But there are many maladies that will take a child early…_

* * *

That eve, Finduila speaks with her husband. "Denethor, the wizard frightens me. I do not like how he looks at Faramir. I beg of you, please send him away."

Her lord, surprised and puzzled at her reaction, wonders if it is some fiction of a new mother? "Lady, he is a wizard, and indeed has little experience of children, he looks stern yes. But I see or hear no malice in him."

"Denethor, please, send him away. I cannot attend the festivals, otherwise."

The Captain walks in the court the next morn, stern and serious, unlike his mien of the day before.

"My lord what troubles you." asks the wizard, "Where is your Lady, is she well?"

Denethor sighs. "She is well, but much concerned with the baby and would not be apart from him. I wish I could reassure her."

_An opportunity presents itself._ "Captain, if she is concerned, I have a tincture to give the babe for his strength. He is so small he must be more subject to the many slights of childhood."

"I thank you, lord, it will ease her mind, I am sure."

* * *

And so, the next day the wizard passed a vial of clear red liquid to the babe's father, his voice a river of calm, insistent reassurance. "A few drops each day will ensure he thrives. Be sure the child has it each day"

"No, I will have nothing from that creature, near my son!" Finduilas, in her fear and agitation, held Faramir so tightly he started to wail.

"Finduilas! This was a thoughtful offer on his part, to the babe's benefit. You are starting at shadows."

"No!"

"You will give it to the babe, it is for his good."

"No!" Tears pricked her eyes as she looked at the thunder in her husband's face. Always he had looked on her with love, he who never so much as raised his voice.

"Your objections are unfounded." He recalled a conversation in the study, years ago. "_Does the lady pine for the Captain_?" Saruman had asked, artless innocence in his tone. "_They were much together._" _Now even she will not listen to me, _he thought, and the bitterness rose up within him_, _ "Finduilas, do as I say, now" he found himself shouting.

With trembling hands she gripped the proffered vial. Afraid, of a sudden, that Denethor would force it on the baby himself, Finduilas swiftly raised the vial to her lips and in one movement drank it down.

"There, are you happy?" she cried, flinging the empty vial with all her strength back at him. It smashed against the stone wall beside, crystal pieces splintering to the floor and on the velvet shoulder of his tunic. A scent of green grass filled the room, oddly bright amidst the discord. Reaching up with one unsteady hand he felt a wet nick on his cheek. The lady did not see, comforting the wailing boy and avoiding her husband's gaze.

Aghast at the fury and fierceness on his wife's face and her actions, Denethor kept his distance. _Is this some malady of the birth? What has happened to my gentle wife? _He strove to calm his voice before he spoke.

"Lady, you are overwrought and imagining dangers where none exist. I will give orders for you to rest. You will not attend the rest of the festival, which seems to be your wish. After we will find a nurse for Faramir, you have become obsessed." Her husband, in his dismay, turns away and leaves them be.

That night, as Finduilas rocked and crooned to Faramir in their empty bed, the tincture coursed its way through her veins, winding its way back to her trembling heart. A dose to scythe the babe but slowly, it did not kill her, but worked its damage. She was never the same. 

**A/N ** Thorongil's words to Ecthelion are from the Appendix, Return of the King, JRR Tolkien. Saruman's first vision is paraphrased from the Two Towers; his second vision paraphrased from the Houses of Healing, Return of the King, all by JRR Tolkien. I make no recompense from this but greatly appreciate the opportunity to play in his legendarium.


	3. Chapter 3

** A/N:** As you may have guessed this chapter deals in large part with the decline and death of Finduilas, so if you do not wish to read of it, please wait for the next. 

* * *

As midsummer passed and the sun-bleached days made the ramparts of Minas Tirith shimmer, Finduilas left the White City for her childhood home by the bay. Some, noting how pale and drawn she had become, wondered aloud if she missed the sea. Others, seeing her husband's unceasing work on Gondor's defenses, wondered if she was afraid, dismayed by the shadow gathering in the east. In truth, it was far more simple: they were hardly speaking. She, the daughter of Dol Amroth, her dreams at night of peace, was by day filled with dread and a growing fatigue. He, who in his quiet way loved her more than any other, was too bewildered, too proud to speak. The man of Numenor fabled for his Sight, could no longer see into his wife's now guarded heart. 

* * *

The freshening breeze sent clouds scudding across the blue, as Finduilas walked along the sand, below the high sea-cliffs. Kittiwakes wheeled and cried, diving into the waves to fish, or flitted back and forth to nests on the rocks above. Carelessly, she carried her shoes in one hand, her skirts in the other, the hems soaked by errant waves of the rising tide. "Bear!" she called, "No so far!" Her son was also barefoot, running along the strand, chasing the retreating waves and shrieking as they came back to catch him. He was sun-kissed and sandy and quite happily ignoring her. "Boromir" she called louder, "that is far enough!" His given name betokening her seriousness, he changed direction and the game began anew, back towards her. 

Looking up, she smiled to see Nera, their nurse, walking down the cliff path with the baby in her arms. As the young woman drew close, Finduilas reached out eagerly and gathered Faramir in her arms, his solid warmth sending a feeling of relief flooding through her anxious limbs. _Safe with me again_. "He just woke up, my lady" explained Nera, her sandy hair waving in the breeze, "and is of course hungry. Will you and your son, come up for the meal? The Prince is asking." She would not speak of their hasty ride out from the city nor ask when they would return. She too felt relieved to be away from the brooding silences.

"Yes we will, in just a few more minutes." _I want some time alone_, Finduilas thought, _before the questions come_. She thanked the woman, who turned away and started to ascend once more.

For an idle few minutes, keeping always a watchful eye over her firstborn, Finduilas played with the baby. Wading in, her skirts soaked to the knees, she held him under the arms and swung him high over the waves, again and again dipping back down to touch his feet in the water. He squealed in surprise at the cold and she laughed at the furious expression on his face. Back on the strand, she set Faramir down, and he, delighted at the warmth, crawled eagerly, trying his skill on a new surface. Gaining speed and focused on the task, he bumped in surprise against a pair of sturdy legs. "Ha, I've got you." grinned his big brother, jumping sideways and back to block the little one's path.

Finduilas sighed, knowing she could no longer put off the day. She scooped up a protesting Faramir. "Let us go, Bear, you must be hungry." "Yes!" came the happy reply and he darted off toward the path "Grandfather always has sweets!"

As she make her way up the steep and stony path she had climbed so many times as a girl, Finduilas felt the weight of her sodden skirts drag at her. _I should not have got so wet. _ A few feet higher still, she had to stop and rest, dizzy and breathless. She held a hand to the pain in her side. Twice more on the trip to the cliff top, she paused so, panting and tired. Nera, holding tight to Boromir's hand as he leaned carelessly over the edge, frowned in concern at the sight below. "My lady, are you unwell?" she called.

Finduilas shook her head quickly. "No, no I am fine, just a little winded. Walking here will get me back in shape again." With relief she reached the top and found she walk with ease along the flat, slowly back to the palace.

The lunch table was set in the garden and quite conspicuously laden with her favourite foods and sweet treats for her son. _They are spoiling me_, Finduilas thought as she sat between her siblings. Imrahil had come straight from a morning's ride, smelling of hay and horse. Ivriniel, usually so full of questions, was carefully and quietly cutting up pieces of fruit for the baby to wave in the air and mush. Their father, Prince Adrahil, his clear grey eyes missing nothing, sat thoughtfully at the head of the table and let the talk relax into easy questions about the palace and the town. He watched his middle daughter all the while. She was beautiful still, with her fine dark hair and delicate face, but now he found she looked pale and pinched, and did not laugh. _No,_ he thought, _this is not her_.

Rising after the servants had cleared their places, the Prince stretched out his hand. "My daughter, come walk at whiles with me." Finduilas knew it was a summons. All had been arranged, her loving, if determined, family conferring late last night after she arrived. Imrahil took Boromir off to find a pony to ride, while her ever competent big sister announced she would take the baby for a walk. Finduilas gave herself up to the inevitable.

As they strolled arm in arm along the formal garden path, Adrahil reflected on how best to start. His gentle daughter seemed skittish and tense, lines of care around her eyes and a line across her forehead. He remembered it from tantrums of old. He placed his hand upon hers and gave it a gentle squeeze. "Fin, we are as ever thrilled to see you and the boys. This is a welcome surprise, indeed. But quite the surprise. You arrived before your letter."

Finduilas did not meet his gaze, pretending to inspect the fruit on an apple tree nearby. She was tired; tired of the angry silences, tired of the strain, tired of the fear. "I needed to get away, papa. Things have become…difficult."

"With your lord?" he asked gently, as his heart clenched. _Lalith always feared they would be unsuited._

_"_Yes", she admitted, the line across her forehead more pronounced. "We had a quarrel."

Adrahil tried and failed to imagine what simple quarrel would bring his sensitive but brave middle daughter fleeing from her home and the man he knew she loved. "Has he hit you?" _Surely not. Denethor would never lose control so. He would be mortified._

Swiftly she turned. "No, papa. He shouted at me. I would not do as he asked." Her fingers plucked in agitation at the folds of her skirts, now drying in the sun. "He listens too much to that wizard. It frightens me."

The Prince paused, certain there must be more and lifted her pale face up to him. Dark smudges marked the creamy skin below grey eyes so alike to his own. "Have you Seen something?"

Finduilas shook her head. "No, my dreams are full of light and hope. I have Seen the boys well grown in manhood, triumphant, happy." She paused, afraid to give him too much hope. "And I saw a king, a healer, a Dunadan." She could not bring herself to say his name aloud. "But I know not if it is a fever dream of hope or True, it was not clear."

Adrahil breathed a silent prayer. _Lórien, Master of Dreams make it so._ "Then whence comes your fear, my daughter?"

"It is the reason of my waking mind. I cannot dispel the fear that Saruman wishes Faramir harm." A trembling hand brushed strands of black from out of her eyes. _She is truly afraid. _Her father clasped it, hoping to quiet both their fears. "What do you think?"

"That I must keep him safe, as any mother should. I am not starting at shadows!"

"Surely your husband can allay your fears, Fin? Ask him to send this wizard away?" _Would he really do it?_ she wondered, remembering the fury and the vial. "He thinks I merely cross him. He does not understand"

The Prince drew a parchment from inside his tunic. Her heart sank as he showed her seal of the Steward. "I had a letter by rider late this morning. He must have set out directly as you left. Ecthelion asks after you and the children and how long you intend to 'holiday' with us."

His daughter could not bring herself to answer nor would she read the words. How very angry must her husband must be, forced to swallow his pride and have her father-in-law write.

"My dear, you know you must be reconciled in time. Denethor will never let you take his heir and you will not be parted from either boy." His eyes were full of pity, but too long the Prince of Dol Amroth had watched the House of Hurin rule the kingdom. He knew it would not be otherwise. "Talk to him. Help him to understand your fears. As you are, there can be no understanding."

"Not yet. I need time." He saw the lines upon her face and her fists clenched and thought, _They are both stubborn_.

"I am tired, father. May we go in?" The Prince acquiesced with a heavy heart, hoping time and tide would bring an answer.

* * *

Saruman the White came with the bitter north wind as the leaves lay brown on the slopes of Mindolluin. Whispered words of scandal had reached even his ears at Isengard, as they had most inns on the Great North road_. The Steward of Gondor has been deserted by his young and beautiful wife. _A new play had opened upon the board and he was intent to make best its use.

He found the Steward, grim-faced and brooding, upon his seat in the Great Hall. Lost in pride and misery, he did not look up as the wizard's steps rang across the stone slabs of the hall.

_Perfect_, thought Saruman, as he struck his staff upon the ground, the ringing tones at last brought up the Steward's gaze. "Good morrow, Lord Denethor, I am come in your time of need, with counsel to ease your heart and your mind"

The grey eyes flashed in sudden anger. "I should not have thought, Saruman the Wise, that you listened to fishwives tales." _Careful….careful_. The wizard had misjudged his tolerance. _His pride is wounded too._

"I do not need to listen to prattling and idle chatter, Lord Steward, to know well what happens in Middle-Earth. I have seen that your lady's seat is empty. Since it grieves you so, I thought it would ease your heart to see her, to see your sons"

Denethor's face was a mask, grim and grey. "I do think I would be welcome to Dol Amroth at this time. There is no point."

"Ah, but there you are wrong, my lord. There is a way to see from afar, kept still and waiting here in the City. You alone have the key." The wizard leaned upon his staff, waiting for his poisoned words to seed.

The Steward, his heart heavy and his need great, slowly nodded once. He remembered then there was a high tower room, long locked and dark.

Saruman led the younger man up through the seventh circle and at the Tower of the first Ecthelion the two ascended the many stairs in hushed and pregnant silence. At the topmost stair there was a narrow wooden door, bound in iron, rusted and unpolished. Denethor slipped in the one great key long unused, alone of those given with his office. The lock was stiff, not turned in centuries. No warden had watched the tower-room since Earnur rode off to Minas Morgul. At last the door was opened and they entered.

The room was round and deeply shrouded, myriad grey motes of dust deepening the gloom. There were no adornments, no furnishings such as a great king would have, the walls were bare. The white stones of the tower itself gave off the only light; a pale, unearthly glow. A tall round pedestal of black marble stood in the very centre of the room. It was carved about the top and plinth, the runes too faint to read, their message lost to time. Heavy and smooth, a great black orb, two handspans width, lay within a shallow bowl upon its top. Ungoverned by a directing mind, about its circumference the visions lay; wayward and haphazard, images diminishing forever in the distance, blurred and distorted.

Saruman walked around the palantir, his gaze intent upon the ever-changing images. His voice, when he spoke, echoed in the gloom, thrumming with power.

"As a learned man, you know the rhyme of Elendil, Denethor. Seven stars and seven stones the Faithful brought from the wreck of Numenor. The Stones of Annuminas and Amon Sul are sunk beneath the waves, shipwrecked with Arvedui when the North Kingdom fell. The Great Stone of Osgiliath was lost in Anduin. Emyn Beraid looks only west to Elvenhome that was. This, this is the Anor-stone, once twinned with its brethren in Orthanc and Minas Ithil. The Ithil-stone surely was destroyed, ere the city fell to the Enemy. The Stone of Orthanc yet lives and I have used it…its visions clear as when Elendil first set foot out of the west." He looked up and caught his quarry's gaze.

Denethor's face did not raise from the orb, faint hope and fear both vying to break the grey mask. "The palantir."

"Just so. Will you take up what is yours by right, son of Hurin? It is your destiny to lead the people at this time. You are the Ruling Steward. It will be amenable to your will. With it you can look to see events great and small. From the palace of Dol Amroth to the Orc-ridden glades of Ithilien, think of the advantage you would have, the knowledge you could gain."

The wizard beckoned to the younger man and walked around the stone to the north-north east. He looked through it then, back along a line to the south-southwest; his will intent upon a farther shore. The tumbling images disappeared and in their place towards his gaze there appeared a city, small figures moving to and fro about its streets.

"Concentrate my lord, focus on the people, bring them closer, closer with your will." Denethor turned his eyes upon the image and instantly it sharpened…the stone recognized its rightful master. With a deep sigh of need he bent his head and the people enlarged, the image shifting through the streets as he sought the vision he most desired. There she was, holding Boromir's hand, walking through the market stalls. _Oh my love. Oh my son._

The wizard's now velvet voice came low beside his ear."Focus more, you can see if she wears her rings." Trembling with the effort, Denethor willed the image to enlarge the more. There on his wife's hand he made out their wedding ring. He heaved a great sigh, as relief and fatigue both overtook his limbs.

Thus it was that the Steward who so greatly loved Gondor and its people, first turned to his will the tool he hoped would help the defend the kingdom. As they locked the door again and began to descend, Saruman played out the final move, before a new game was to begin. "Be careful Denethor. Never gaze toward Minas Morgul. The Ithil-stone was paired with yours and so would see its twin quite easily. It has been long thought lost, but we know not for sure. Best to not tempt fate, however great ones will."

* * *

In the years that followed, an uneasy peace settled over the Steward's palace and all within it. Finduilas rarely let her youngest out of her sight and her lord pretended not to notice. Consulting quietly far and wide, all told him to give his lady rest and time and humour her. He did and if they spoke little, at least they spoke and the air was less fraught, although saddened in time by Ecthelion's passing. With the old Steward gone, Mithrandir came then little to Minas Tirith and there was none to check the pride and counsel of the Steward. Denethor came to see that the less he mentioned of Saruman, the less Finduilas fretted. She did not care that her husband spent many nights alone and never dreamed that the wizard saw into the very heart of the great white Tower.

If Denethor ignored her obsession with the boy, he could not ignore her slowly worsening health. At first she was merely tired and breathless climbing stairs. Soon, she wheezed after lifting the smallest item and was often dizzy. The Healers told them it was a weakness of her heart, perhaps long dormant from childhood, perhaps brought on by the difficult birth. Tinctures and medicines were tried, but little helped. He told himself it was weak of him to blame a mere child, but in his heart of hearts a tendril of resentment grew. _He has taken her love from me. What else can be taken?_

* * *

With a gasping cry, the little boy awoke. Only slowly did his body realize he was not truly drowning, not robbed of breath, enveloped by the roiling green waves of water. It was the summer of his fifth year and Faramir was terrified. He knew his eyes were open yet it seemed to him the dream was still so bright he could see it before his waking eyes. A great wave moved heartlessly over the green land, over the grey stone of the city, sweeping ships and people and animals all before it. Unstoppable it was, and in its wake a great brooding darkness arose, silent save for the cries of the eagles and the keen of the wind. _Darkness Inescapable. _He shivered, unable to let the image door to his small bedroom opened. A welcome sliver of light fell across his face, and she came in. He could hear Finduilas' wheezing breath from the short walk. Laying a light down on the windowsill, she nestled down beside him. As her breath slowed and steadied she stroked his damp hair and hugged him close.

"What did you dream, my love?" she asked, when finally she could speak.

Low and halting he described the wave, the green, the fear and sense of devastation. She nodded all the while. _He is a child of Westernesse after all._

"I have that dream, dear one, as does your grandfather. You dream of Numenor, brought low by Manwe in ages past, the High Kings lost their way. Do not fear the sea, it will not harm you. The Valar raised it up for their purpose in that time to teach the Fallen the error of their pride. In their pride and folly the Fallen tried to challenge the gift of the One to Men. Pride ever drives kings and kingdoms, men and crofts alike, to their fall."

Faramir frowned, thinking sleepily that sometimes he was proud of his reading. "How can we have the same dream?"

"Do you remember the rhyme of Elendil?" He nodded and recited it by heart.

"Tall kings and tall ships

Three times three

What brought they from the foundered land

Over the flowing sea?

Seven star and seven stones

And one white tree."

Finduilas thought of a great mural in the palace showing a ship sailing into the haven of the bay. "The houses of Dol Amroth and Hurin both come east in those ships, bringing gifts that the Valar gave to the Faithful of Numenor. It is the gift of your father's family to read the minds of men and so to speak. It is the gift of my family to Dream True, to See." _Could you have both? Would your father tell me, if he knew it?_

A line of worry appeared on his forehead, a mirror of her own. "How do I know if the dream is true? Are they always true?" He thought anxiously of Wargs and Orcs and scoldings half-remembered from other disturbed nights.

"No, not all are true. You will know. A true dream stays in your mind's eye as if etched. It is bright and sharp and does not fade. Most often it is just a picture, a moment, not great events, but little things that seem to not have meaning. If you can read the scene you can understand what it foretells."

The worry line grew only deeper. _He is little for this, _she thought_, but I have no time._

"Let me tell you one of mine." She smiled in the dimness. _My dearest dream and it is True, praise Lórien. _ "I see a tall man in his prime kneel beside a tree with golden leaves. He is smiling and he has your eyes. Two blond and sturdy boys race up and tackle him together. They wrestle and he lets them pin him to the grass. They are laughing. A little girl, dark and with our eyes, leaps upon them all. It is just that scene but I know you are that man and they are my grandchildren, and you will be happy._" If naught changes the music of Arda. Eru hear my prayer. S_he hugged him hard again.

'Did you dream of Boromir, also?' he asked, wanting his brother to be happy too.

"Oh yes love, I have. I see him stand on the heights of Osgiliath, a great sword in his hand and the standard of the Stewards fluttering in the breeze. All around the troops are shouting his name. There has been a great battle and he is victorious. He looks like King Earnur of old; broad and tall and strong. I see his pride and love for the people and our land. I know it is a day he remembers as one of his happiest."

"He would like that, Mama."

"Oh yes," Finduilas waited, hoping he would not ask more. He did not. With relief, she tucked him in and began the slow, labored walk back to her room. That night, as she lay down again and could not catch her breath at all for many minutes, she knew. _It has begun._

* * *

The winter of his fifth year, Faramir was confused. The Steward's palace was full of people, but there was no laughter and no one seemed to celebrate. All was hushed, silent as the snow dusting the city and seemed just as quietly waiting. Grandfather had arrived, and Uncle Imrahil and his pretty new wife, and Aunt Ivriniel. 'Is it for Mettare?,' he asked Nera for the second time, who now simply shook her head, her eyes swollen and red. Boromir did not want to play and seemed angry when he asked. He did not understand why.

They were taken to see their mother in the morning, the room close and stuffy, smelling oddly sweet. Finduilas sat in the great chair, as she had for months, propped up on many pillows. Faramir knew she slept at night that way, unable to breathe save in that pose. Her wheezing was slow and labored, her face gaunt, her body wasted. Every now and then she coughed with a terrible force and the healer gently wiped the bloody froth from her lips. She was too weak to lift her hands.

Boromir went first to her and he hugged her hard, his nose was running and his eyes were red. He was so very angry that he shook as he held her hand. She tried to soothe him with what voice she had left. "I will love you always, my Bear. Remember me when you laugh, for your laugh has always brought me joy. Be brave and strong and follow your heart. Protect your brother for me and keep him safe. Will you promise?" Her grey and sunken eyes pleaded. "I promise." he vowed to her cold but sweating brow as he kissed her. Her hand squeezed his for a moment and the tears began to fall.

Nera had then brought Faramir forward and he stood on tiptoe to kiss her cheek and hug her carefully, straining to hear her murmured words of love. 'You are the light of my life, Fara. I will love you always. Be true and remember my dream._"_ She had not said goodbye. She had little breath left.

He dreamed that night of her, walking lightly through a shrouded hall, its walls lined with golden tapestries. She did not wheeze and her eyes were bright, her head held high. _Remember me, little one._ _I will await you here._

In the morning, everything had changed again.

* * *

As was the custom on the third day, the Steward and his sons; the Princes and Princess of Dol Amroth walked slowly behind the bier as they wove their way through the City to the gate of the Silent Street. Despite the cold the streets were thronged with mourners. Many wept openly, for the wife of the Steward had been gentle and gracious; dearly loved and taken untimely. Flowers lay on the stones beneath their feet; the winter rose and mistletoe, white and frosted.

Faramir walked as long as he could, remembering his father's words to be straight and steady and not to cry. Imrahil was the first the spy the little head droop and his nephew's steps slow; angered again that his brother-in-law, unbending and proud, made one so young walk with them. He was about to break the line and help, when Boromir grasped his little brother around the waist and lifted him up. So they walked, for some few yards. He was determined, although the path was still long, and his brother heavy. Then, when he worried he could not continue but must put his burden down, strong arms lifted them both together. High in their father's arms, the sons of the Steward went through the gate together: to a white and silent tomb that one day would ring with the sounds of battle and be blackened by despair.

Late that night a little boy walked shivering in his nightshirt down a silent corridor. Too young to truly understand, he was frightened: by the sadness, the hushed voices, and most of all, his brother's unceasing tears as they tried to sleep. Unheard, Faramir entered his father's room and padded softly to the fireside. There his father sat, carved in stone, unmoving, grey, his face to the flames. Like stone, there were now a myriad tiny fractures within, inflicted by the hammer blow of her loss. His hands on the arms of the chair were so locked his knuckles were white, as if with force alone he could hold the fault planes together. He did not notice his small son. Faramir, looking up, was frightened all the more when he saw the firelight flicker in wet tracks upon his father's face. _The Steward did not cry. _Climbing up onto the great lap, he rested his head on his father's chest, feeling the soft damp of the black tunic on his face. Thinking he understood what upset his father so, he sought for words of comfort.

"Mama will be able to breathe, papa." he insisted, "They will know she must sit up. Eru knows how to take care of someone who is sick." With an anguished cry, the Steward's hands at last let go the chair. He hugged his son fiercely, whispering "I love you." into the damp straight locks. Cruel fate decreed the boy would be too young to remember what he most desired to hear, the last time it was spoken.


	4. Chapter 4

**In which a new captain is placed upon the board, a pawn is moved and several feints are planned**

Denethor, Steward of Gondor, long known as a man stern and proud, became ever more grim and grey in the years that followed his lady's loss. Mourning always the bright jewel of his heart, he wore only black; great sable robes that hid the mail and sword he wore to keep his body strong. Long hours he would sit in the White tower of his forefather, deep in thought and searching o'er the wider realm. Gondor's defences he and his father had strengthened: the Rammas rebuilt, the beacons set and ready, foreseeing that their final trial with Mordor would come within in his time.

His sons had grown and now he readied them, tools also to be used in war. Boromir had his father's pride and face, but not the blood of Westernesse, the gifts of both Hurin and Dol Amroth had passed him by. He had his mother's sense of humour, but his own great heart and an appetite for life to match, delighting always in arms and deeds of valour. Just 19, he had become the youngest Captain of Gondor's army, his fame and renown growing with each skirmish. Faramir was his mother in personality; sensitive and steadfast, ever curious, looking out on the world with her gentle grey eyes. His face was the mirror of his father's and his body also: lithe and quick and strong. Already he was training in arms and archery, although he stole what time he could for what he loved best, lore and language and history. In him, as in his father, the blood of Westernesse ran nearly true.

* * *

Mithrandir pulled his great grey cloak more tightly round, shivering a little at the damp. The rain was softly pelting down, the pavement wet beneath his feet, and a steady drip commenced again from the brim of his battered hat. The staff beat time with his footsteps upon the stones, steady as he climbed up through the city's streets. He was in no hurry, indeed taking his time, pondering how best to attain his goal, in this city where he was little welcome.

A ring Bilbo had shown to him, a gold ring without device or design, simple in its beauty, less simple in its uses. Mithrandir remembered once again the words of Saruman, the last time the White Council met. "It is gone" said the great wizard, his words ringing in the air. "Gone down the mighty Anduin to the sea. Washed outside our reach and only great Ulmo can find it now." And so he has believed for long and long. Was not Saruman the most learned of their order? Had he not spent many years researching the One Ring's very fate? Surely Bilbo's ring must then be one of many rings of magic, wrought by a smith of lesser skill.

And yet of late the wizard had witnessed many things that made him uneasy about the eldest of their order. Manwe himself had charged them with their toil: to give such aid and guidance as they were able, but not impose their will upon events. Grown proud and arrogant as his power waxed, already Saruman had broken this vow; overruled the Council and stayed their hand against Dol Gulder. Many had been slain and taken when, emboldened by their hesitation, the Enemy attacked the woodland realm.

Now having come to doubt his mentor's intent, Mithrandir found he doubted all he had been told. "Naught but an account of the moment he cut his prize from the Enemy's hand, my old friend. Nothing to describe the ring itself." Saruman had said as he declared useless the scroll of Isildur.

Perhaps this was a waste of precious time and yet, here to Minas Tirith he had come, misgiving in his heart, hoping to search once again for some sign, some design that would identify the ring. The wizard wished to see the scroll for himself. He paced on up through the final circles, through the wet and lowering weather, thinking he would need a strategy indeed to convince the Steward to let him rummage in his vaults.

* * *

Faramir skidded to a sudden halt outside the breakfast room, as the Tower guardsmen hid their smiles at the haystack of his hair, unbrushed and quite forgotten at the news. Nera had come to wake him as she always did, setting out the order of the day.

"My lord, you are to breakfast with your father straight away and then apply yourself to your studies in the morning." Faramir sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes. Flushed from sleep and hair more tangled than usual, his pupils were wide despite the light. Nera wondered _Had he dreamed again?_

"In the afternoon you have arms practise with the Captain and then you will attend the feast tonight with all the companies. Mind you wash after the drills and dress in your best boots and a _clean_ tnnic." Now governess, she kept a close but gentle rein upon on her forgetful charge, lest he feel too often his father's easy wrath. Lord Denethor was always punctual and well turned out. His younger son was not.

"The feast is tonight?! Which Captain? Are they back?" The covers were thrown quickly back, Faramir forgetting in his excitement that she still looked through the doorway.

"Why, your brother of course and yes they came back late yestereve." Nera smiled and gave him a last instruction. "Lord Faramir, don't forget to brush your hair!"

Now that he stood before the door, clothed in a wrinkled shirt and breeches pulled hastily from the floor, the boy licked his palm and tried to smooth the unruly black locks that stuck out in all directions. Father would not be happy with the presentation, but he didn't care. Boromir was back! At his nod the guardsmen opened the door and announced his presence.

It was no dream that sat at the table with his father, spreading jam upon a bun, smiling broadly, as if he had not been gone these four months past. Faramir just barely remembered his manners.

"Good morning father" He bowed his head respectfully. His father nodded and placed his teacup down, a mixture of displeasure and resignation upon his face.

"Good morning, Captain." He bowed to Boromir, who pushed his chair back and rose, a napkin falling to the floor. "You don't need to Captain me!" Boromir protested as he engulfed his younger brother in a fierce hug. He stepped back to survey his little brother at arms length. "Fara, Valar you have grown! I almost can't do this" he grinned, reaching out to perch his elbow on his brother's head. He laughed as Faramir squirmed away, but their usual joke was on him. Indeed he couldn't, his brother was now taller than his shoulder.

As they settled back at the table, Boromir was peppered with excited questions, launched around mouthfuls of the copious breakfast the fourteen-year-old was wolfing down. "Faramir." their father admonished sternly, before turning back to his ever present papers. His younger son tried to swallow before speaking.

"You went all the way to Firien wood? It must have been wonderful to be camping out every night." Boromir laughed ruefully. The boy made campaigning sound almost like a picnic.

"Wonderful is not the adjective that comes to mind, little brother. Wet, cold, or hard more like. I prefer a bed, and a warm meal. I am very thankful now that as Captain I do not need to cook. A well fed company is a happy company, I have quickly learned that."

"They probably put you up for promotion." Faramir's teasing grin lit up his gentle face. "No more risk of poisoning!"

"What?" The Captain turned wide-eyed upon his brother, poised to clip him on the shoulder. Denethor, not entirely ignoring his sons, read his eldest with ease and shot him a quelling look. The hand was lowered. Boromir had indeed laid low half a squad with a carcass of rotten meat, he remembered, but how had Faramir heard about it?

The brothers thought it prudent to eat quietly for a while, Boromir silently passing to his brother every last pastry on the table and most of the fruit too. Where was the slighter boy putting it all?

"What have you been doing, Fara, other than growing and eating and sleeping late." He ruffled his brother's hair, to show that he was teasing.

"Archery and sword practice of course." His brother nodded. "History with Ivanduil, and lots and lots about the laws of Cirion. Did you know he started the beacons?" he asked excitedly. Faramir reveled in the chance to talk. It had been too quiet. Their father these days was a man of few words and little time.

Boromir, for whom learning was a skill done with energy, imprinted by experience and not reading, snorted. "Have you not yet ruined your eyes, peering at all those dates and names?" He knew full well that Faramir could recite it all by heart and was really rather proud of that.

"No! My sight is better than yours. Belegon says that is why I make the better archer." The Captain raised an eyebrow, thinking he must have a word with the armsmaster. His brother was enjoying himself far too much at his expense!

Denethor paused in marking notes upon a parchment and closed the folio. He stood up, the meal was over, and his sons rose obediently. He looked pointedly at his second born. "Mithrandir has arrived and I have reluctantly given him leave to use the archives. You are not to disturb him Faramir. By midday I expect you to give me the Oath that Cirion spoke to Eorl, its history and importance to governance by our house."

As his father strode purposefully from the room, Faramir had to remember to close his mouth. Mirthandir was here! And Boromir! This was going to be a most wonderful day.

* * *

The early morning passed slowly for the young Dunadan, for once less intent upon his studies than the promise of events to come. The dim and filtered light of the library did not help the task, nor did the flat and droning voice of Ivanduil, his tutor, a dedicated historian who quite despaired of Boromir's attention but usually found his younger brother eager to learn. Not so this day. The boy fidgeted and turned his gaze away, looking past the heavy curtains on the great arched windows to the sunshine outside the Citadel and the parade ground beyond.

As Faramir failed to answer his question for a second time, the silver-haired and grey-eyed gentleman sighed and put his quill down, rubbing his thinning temple. "Young master, is there any point in continuing? I am afraid your heart is not with Cirion this morning."

The boy looked back with a start, and flushed. He was being rude and Ivanduil was trying. "I am very sorry Sir. I am not making good use of your efforts."

"Then I think I will release you. Perhaps fresh air and sunshine will help you focus."

"Thank you, Sir!" Faramir bowed and rose, the delight at his release all too evident. The elder man waved him away, concealing a smile, knowing the boy's quick mind would make up for it another day.

"Do not thank me, but I sincerely hope you have a considered answer for your Lord Father's question come the time."

Faramir made his way towards the side door, closest to the practise ground. Here the library divided into smaller rooms, arranged off a low-ceilinged and little used hallway. As he trod the hall in silence, the worn carpet muffling his footfalls, the boy heard a low, insistent muttering. A door just farther on was open a crack. Curiosity waylaid his original purpose and he peered in.

In the small dim room packed nigh to the ceiling the aged scrolls, sat Mithrandir intent upon his research. Murmuring all the while in the Elven tongue, the wizard scanned the papers before him, one gnarled finger traversing each line in quick succession. The great worn staff leaned against the desk and beside it floated the only source of the light in the shrouded room, a softly glowing yellow sphere. Faramir exclaimed softly in wonder at the sight. _Magic!_

As the wizard looked up, he saw the young boy duck his head, ever courteous and apologetic for intruding. "Welcome, Lord Mithrandir. I am sorry I disturbed you." Could this youth, all coltish limbs, hair and tunic askew, be the quiet and serious child he had last seen? Eyes twinkling like stars in inky sky, a smile lit up the lined and careworn face. 'Lord Faramir, how good it is to see you again! Come in, come in."

Faramir moved lightly through the door, a hesitant smile alighting on his features. It seemed to the wizard he could see the thirst for knowledge in his face, the sense of wonder in the keen grey eyes. "What are you searching for sir? Can I help? I read Sindarin and a bit of Quenya too."

"Nothing to interest you lad, just dusty tomes of long forgotten history." He would not speak openly of his quest. It would not due to speak of rings aloud, so close under the mountains to the east. "What have you studying young lad?" He motioned the boy to sit in a chair beside the desk.

"The history of Gondor, sir. Today it was the Oath of Eorl and our alliance with Rohan."

"Ah. Now there is an exciting tale. The Riders of Eotheod came upon the field at Celebrant just when your forefather thought all hope was lost and defeat stared us in the face. It was a moving day when Eorl and Cirion swore oaths in gratitude and friendship and Cirion gave Calenardhon to the Rohirrim to keep and guard."

"You were there!" Faramir marvelled at the agelessness of wizards.

"Yes I was. It was the first time a steward swore an oath to Eru, reserved only for the Kings. Cirion was wise and laid his hand upon Elendil's tomb as he spoke the words. An oath so sworn will not be forsaken, not by Gondor or Rohan, however burdensome the cost."

The two fell easily into talk of history, Mithrandir delighted to answer the boy's thoughtful questions, intent upon the morning's subject now brought to life. So lost in the enjoyment of their discussion was Faramir that he did not sense the morning slipping by, and heard with dismay the midday bell ringing in the courtyard nearby.

Suddenly the easiness was gone and the boy lept up from the chair, tense and worried. "The bell..I am late! I'll be in trouble with Father again." He groaned started for the door. "He was already annoyed at how I came to breakfast."

"And your transgression was?" Mithrandir tilted his head to one side and surveyed the anxiety in the boy's face.

It came all out in a sorry rush. "I was late then too and I wasn't neat and I forgot to comb my hair, and my clothes were rumpled." He heaved a heavy sigh, dejectedness in the very set of his shoulders. "Everything I do annoys him."

The wizard smiled ruefully. Oh the agonies of youth. "I daresay, young Faramir, there are other matters to worry more about." He fingered his long and ragged beard and his eyes were merry as he chuckled softly. "I am certain I would displease your father also. I am not renowned for my turnout either. Nor is the mightiest warrior I know."

Relief and gratefulness at the unaccustomed support flooded the boy's anxious features. As he paused, his hand upon the door, Faramir turned back. His eyes were dark wide pools, brimming with hope and longing.

"Mithrandir, who is Aragorn?"

The floating globe evaporated with a loud pop as the wizard started badly. His voice was rough and the parchment shook within his grasp. "How did you know that name, Faramir?" The air in the room felt suddenly close and cool as fear unlooked for clenched suddenly at his heart.

"You…you just said it." The boy was puzzled, not understanding. What had done wrong? The wizard rose and walked slowly around the desk, willing his feet to be steady as he went. Faramir did not flinch as the older man reached out and clasped the boy's chin, searching carefully his face for the truth.

"No I did not, lad." Two sets of wide and worried eyes met each other across the dim.

"I am sorry my lord." The boy shook his head as if to clear an image. "It must be a waking dream. I dream sometimes, as my mother did." He wanted to explain, to give his mentor hope. He was not used to seeing Mithrandir afraid. "She saw a king returned and I was there."

_Did she?_ _But he did not, else he might have recognized Estel. _The wizard frowned. This was too near an escape._ He has the gifts of both his houses and strong to be able to read me, even if I was not guarding._

"No, this was no dream, Faramir. You read it from my heart. However it came to you, it is a name you must keep safe. His time is not yet come. Swear, swear to me you will not speak of this to anyone. Not your father, not your brother. No one." The room seemed tense and heavy as Mithrandir's words rang, laced with a power he was ever loathe to use.

Faramir licked his lips, suddenly dry, but his eyes were steady and held no guile. "I swear my Lord." The wizard nodded gravely amd the very air relaxed with a quiet sigh. "Go, young Dunadan, and tell your father I will speak with him later. And do not speak to him of kings. He would not thank you."

* * *

Within the dark and many-windowed tower of Orthanc, the Lord of Isengard had sent his spies away, their orders clear and specific. Three men they were, loyal to his gold and his guile, certain of the approbation they would receive upon the seemingly easy task. _Search the Shire for a hobbit named Baggins. Bring me word of his habits and his doings. _One only had an additional task. At this their master smiled faintly. He would find out the use of this leaf of which the grey one was so enamored.

It was the appointed hour for his contact with the Anor-stone, and so the wizard drew his cloak of changing colours about him and climbed higher up into the tower. From four great monoliths of black obsidian Orthanc was wrought, by the men of Numenor long ago. At its summit four spires sharp as the points of spears stretched to the sky, the bones of the earth reaching out of the tormented hills. Between them lay a single room, the home of the Orthanc-stone, itself as black as the walls and spires around.

Saruman turned his gaze upon the stone resting on its plinth and his thoughts to one he sought to reach. The hazy, tumbling images refocused and he saw a room as white as his was black: the Tower of Ecthelion. The grave and serious face of the Steward came in to view, lines of care and worry etched ever deeper on the proud and high face.

No words were spoken into the chilled silence of each tower, yet each warden heard the other's words. The very air crackled with a cool and focused power.

_Hail Denethor son of Ecthelion. It is good to see you yet again for our council. I trust you fare well and your sons also._

_ "We are well Saruman. The elder is newly made a captain and is a credit to his company. We are in good hands. He will in time be the Captain-General and key to our defences."_

_ Prudent my steward. He seems a man worthy and valiant. And the younger boy? What of him?_

_ "There, it will take time to temper him to Gondor's need. He is dreamer and little inclined to the deeds he must take on. His fills his head with songs and lore and fables. He has spent already too many hours at the feet of Mithrandir, entranced by his tales. The grey one has come again to Minas Tirith and I am keeping them apart."_

_ Come again to the city, whatever for?_

_ "To search our archives for scrolls of knowledge. He seeks he says a weapon that will aid us all in our hour of need to come."_

The wizard's chuckle echoes down the link. _He was ever the lesser of our order, Denethor. Lesser in wisdom, but not in pride. I have searched as you know and have gleaned all that can be got. He resents my knowledge and so seeks on his own to copy what I have done. Thorongil placed his trust in Mithrandir as did your father, wanting only gain and greater power._ _But I would not expect your son to be this way at such a tender age._

_ "I little understand him, I confess. He is a wilful, undisciplined youth._

_ I would watch him warily my Lord. If he is already allying himself with Mithrandir, who know what plots have been put within his head? Be careful he follows your counsel and does not seek to keep his own. You have said his brother loves him greatly. Be ware that the younger does not come between you if he is learning guile from that master of dissembling._

Their council turned to matters of defence, the wizard plying the steward for news of the Enemy's position to the east and south, the state of the local lords and their troops. In return Saruman gave Denethor but tasty morsels, movements in Rohan, stirrings about the Mirkwood and word from his spies of the Dunlendings farther east.

As they broke off, the wizard pondered what he had learned. The treacherous are ever distrustful and so he gnawed in worry upon the news from Minas Tirith. _So that old fool seeks again. Why would he do so? What treachery does he plot against me? _He felt a flicker of unease_. What draws the boy to that upstart?_

Resentment coiled within the wizard's chest, as it did within the Steward's._ Cirdan gave Narya to Mithrandir and not to me! I was the first, I volunteered to aid the children. Why should it not have come to me?_

Suddenly he laughed aloud, the black eyes flickering madly within the high and kingly face. _It is no matter, I have made my own!_ _And will gain the other in due time_. He fingered a gold and silver ring upon his hand. From its jagged runes he drew new strength and gathered himself, walking westward about the tower to shift the palantir's gaze.

This time the image he sees is near as black as the spires above. Far away in a city once fair and beautiful, now stinking with the fires of corrupt creation, the Ithil-stone focuses upon a ring of fire, circled round a red and lidless eye. Even expecting what he would see, Saruman trembles at the awesome sight.

_"The Power of Isengard is at your command, Sauron, Lord of Earth." _His thoughts ring with the enchantment of his speaking voice. The fallen one must not know of what he too desires.

_What news Saruman, from beyond my borders? What news?_

_"Great Lord, I have stayed those who would oppose you. I have kept the peace with the peoples of the west, all the better for your search. Your instrument wants only to return to you. As the kingdoms lie idle you may regain what was has been lost."_

_Very good, wizard. Very good. I would have what was taken from me. With it, none can stand before my designs_.

Despite his new power, Saruman's breath grew laboured and his limbs weak with the strain of guiding the Orthanc-stone. He was not its rightful owner and thus it grew more wayward with each use. He turned himself to one last thought; bargaining with one, in his swollen pride, he believed he could coerce.

_"Together, my lord, we shall rule this Middle-earth. The old world will burn, the forests, fail, a new age of orc will rise. Before all is done we will drive the machine of war with the sword and fire and the iron fist of fear."_

Leagues away in another black and dreaded tower, the mightiest of the Maia, fallen even farther than his pawn, laughed and his servants cowered at the sound.

* * *

Mithrandir sought the Steward of Gondor that afternoon within the hall of Kings, anxious to be away and looking little forward to their talk, yet knowing he must speak of what he learned. He approached the Steward's throne where Denethor sat surrounded by his Captains: the talk of border-war and orc-spies and too little supplies. The youngest among them looked up at his approach and motioned to his father. The Steward raised his hand for silence and nodded for him to speak.

The wizard bowed low, leaning lightly on his staff. "My lord, I give you thanks for the use of your archives. It was princely done, and I believe to Gondor's benefit.

"Mithrandir you are ever a flatterer as much a stormcrow. I know your desire and can see your aims but at least in this search for knowledge we row together."

"Lord, I have a last request ere I make your leave. May we speak in private?"

A black eyebrow raised above an aquiline nose. Surprised, Denethor decided to allow it

" Leave us", he motioned to the men. At Boromir's quick gaze, he inclined his head and his son followed suit.

"Denethor, the time is coming when all our strengths must be put together to halt the menace as it grows. We must marshall our defences, our strength of arms and wits not least. I see Boromir is made a captain, that is indeed well for Gondor. I deem also that the more we learn of the weapon of the Enemy the greater our chance to forestall it reaching its owner. For this I came. Yet in my search I have learned something else and it concerns your other son."

"Faramir?" The Steward's eyes darkened.

"Your younger son is more like to you, my Lord, than you realize. He has both the Gifts of Hurin and Dol Amroth. Did you not know?"

"Nay, he would be young yet for at least the one to show. I had not time to test or think upon it."

"Well I tell you now both are full upon him: wild and without control. Untutored the gift of Hurin is a burden, as you well know. You must send him to Lorien as your father did for you. There is much he must be taught, to use the gift, wisely and well to our benefit."

The Steward shook his head. No power under Arda would have him send his son closer to those lands, away from his control. _At least it explains his raging need for sleep and sustenance_. _Wild the gift burns energy like little else._ "I will teach him myself what is necessary, Mithrandir. If you have not noticed there are fires stoked in Mordor to breed armies and forge black weapons. We have need of arms, not visions. He will be a soldier, not a seer."

The wizard looked as if he might speak again, but at the stubborn set of Denethor's jaw, bowed his head and turned away. He hoped in his heart that for the boy's sake his father taught him soon.

* * *

The afternoon passed quickly as the brothers sparred and joked, at ease with each other as with no one else. Faramir, unsettled by the morning's events, felt all the better when even Boromir had to allow that he was doing somewhat better with his swordsmanship. That night at the feast, he was excited to sit at the main table, at his brother's urging allowed a small glass of watered wine and quite miraculously allowed to stay when the songs and dancing started. He had of course, enthusiastically tried every dish that came his way.

Throughout the night he noticed his father's eyes were on him, and he tried to mind all his manners with the lords and ladies present, striving for his deportment to be perfect. Even Denethor could not be unhappy with what Faramir had managed of his appearance. His hair was washed and pulled back with a black ribbon, curling slightly behind his shoulders, and he was clad in his best dark blue tunic and polished boots. The boy was shyly thrilled when one of his more sprightly great aunts asked him to dance and blushed pink when the pretty wife of the Captain General asked him next. He loved dancing and clearly did well, as after that he never lacked for a partner.

Well fed and happy, up late and enjoying himself, all too soon Faramir found his father at his elbow. From across the hall he caught his brother's eye and waved good night. Boromir, caught in the centre of a throng of singing men, raised his tankard in salute and smiled. Faramir knew he would not be home for many hours, yet.

As he walked quietly back through courtyard to the Steward's Palace, Ithil was rising and very bright. He could just make the scimitar and the swan. The night was soft and Faramir found himself getting sleepy.

As they reached their rooms, his father turned and spoke. "My son I would speak with you." Certain he heard a note of displeasure in the voice, he nervously wondered what had he done. Had he insulted someone at the dance? Said something wrong?

Denethor spoke, coolly and calmly but anger simmered in his gaze "Faramir, did I not give you specific instructions this morning to stay away from Mithrandir?"

"Yes, sir, but…" The boy hesitated. His heart had fallen into his stomach.

"But what?" An eyebrow raised and dark eyes glittered all the more.

"I thought that since Ivanduil and I were done, there would be no harm."

"You thought. You thought. Were you given leave to think?"

"No, sir." The black ponytail fell forward as the boy examined intently the tips of his polished boots.

"You knowingly defied me. And in so doing, you spent so much time enraptured at the feet of that wizard, that you missed lunch and were late to the practise ground. Did you think I would not find out?" The boy for the moment kept silent, hearing the tone of his father's voice rise.

Denethor in his fury spat the words out. "Wooly headed child, you have not the sense to know your own mistakes. You want to learn, to have lore and understanding, but without experience and resolve it is useless. And now I find I am being given lessons in how to raise my own son by that upstart! Saruman was the head of the council for a good reason. Mithrandir is the lesser of their order, It is ill done to put too much stock in the lesser man."

Faramir could not help himself. He would not usually speak his mind, between his exuberant brother and his stern father he always kept his counsel. This once it hurt too much to hear his beloved mentor mocked. "But that is politics. What does it matter who is where within the order? Mithrandir knows so much."

"Everything is politics!" Denethor's face was practically purple with rage. "Your brother and I are trying to protect our people and this kingdom. Staying ones hand and sitting long listening to foolish wizards may have served the kings of old, but Gondor is in need of soldiers with the wit to follow orders. The wolf is at the door."

Faramir, in agony of indecision, tried to explain. "But father,"

"I did not give you leave to speak, do not gainsay me!_" _Denethor was scarcely conscious of the hand that raised: a decade of resentment uncoiled within an instant. Like a striking snake it hit and gathered back with startling speed. He was yet a man of strength, and the force of the blow rocked the boy back, the livid mark of the great ring already rising on his cheek.

Disasters are ever a mix of little events, each alone of no consequence: combined together a chain of misery. Had Faramir not moved to step forward when he did, he would have been more firmly planted. Had he expected the blow, he might have blocked it, although the instinct not to raise his hand to his lord was great. Had the stool not been behind him he would not have gone down.

As he put his hand out to break his fall, Faramir felt a short sharp pain within in his wrist and then a spreading warmth. He bit back a cry, struggling to his knees, knowing it would only enrage his father more if he stayed upon the floor. How had he fallen? What had he done?

Childish bones are easily broken, as can be trust, but love sometimes less so. Finduilas' eyes looked out, newly wary, from a younger, softer version of Denethor's own face. Within their depths hurt now lay but not anger, uncertainty but not judgement. He remembered _her_ eyes, alight with anger and reproach, but never with forgiveness. It seemed too much bear to see it now, when she lay forever beyond his reach.

To drive those unwittingly accusing eyes away, therein lay his only solace. "Get out of my sight" Denethor roared, "Speak to me no more of wizards." The boy, cradling his arm, ran.

* * *

Boromir, Gondor's youngest and likely drunkest Captain, pressed himself lightly up the rampart wall. He was quite pleased that he could still to pull off a trick practised many nights when sneaking home after conquests in the City. He paused only a moment upon the top to smile and steady himself, reflecting that really he was only moderately drunk, not so far gone that he could not make it home without an escort. It had been a memorable evening, the men in high spirits, the ale good, the girls pretty and welcoming.

He sprang quickly down but staggered, swearing softly in the dark, his knees barked upon the stone. It was a farther drop to the garden side, longer than he remembered, and just perhaps he was a tad less steady than he first had thought. He rubbed his knee, as his eyes adjusted to the greater dim underneath the willow tree. No one came, but he listened carefully for a moment. It would not do to have his cover blown and Father see him in this state. He could hear the words. _Unbecoming of your new responsibilities_.

Of a sudden, he heard a faint scrape of boot on stone and what he thought was a hushed and ragged breath. It moved deeper into the shadows beside the corner bench. Springing forward, he grabbed the skulking figure about the shoulders. A familiar voice yelped and he caught a scent of soap and sweat he knew. "Fara..it's only you." He let go the shoulders at once but the figure stood taut and still. "You startled me. What are you doing out here, isn't time for you to be abed?"

Even in the shadows, Boromir could see his brother's face looked pale, his grey eyes bleary, his arm held protectively against his chest. Faramir did not say a word, but by the set of his mouth his brother knew he was in pain.

"What has happened? Did you sprain it when we sparred?" Worried that he might have unknowingly hurt his beloved brother, Boromir tried to lift the arm and see the nature of the injury. The younger boy hissed at the pain and pulled back. The wrist was clearly swollen and darkly bruised.

Now Boromir was truly worried and this seemed to quickly to clear his fuzzy head. "Can you move it? It may be broken. We should take you to the Houses." He laid an arm gently across Faramir's shoulders, intending to steer him back through the garden toward their rooms.

Once out of the shadows the full light of Ithil showed clearly the angry red mark upon the boy's face and the imprint of the ring. The Heir of Gondor knew well indeed the seal of the Steward. An awful realization dawned.

" Boromir no. Leave it. I will go get it looked at." Faramir's voice was strained and pleading. The Captain whirled, fury dogging his steps as he ran through the apartment halls. The remnants of the ale loosed his tongue as he threw open the study door.

"How could you?!"

'How could I what, my son? I am busy and this is a rather unpleasant scene, You smell like a tavern." Denethor at last looked up from the parchment he was scanning, a frown upon his face.

"How could you do this to him? I found Fara in the garden. Did you know his wrist may be broken?" Boromir held tight to a chair back, his knuckles white upon the rail.

A muscle jumped within the Steward's cheek but his eyes remained flat. "No I did not. There was an accident and he tripped. Have him seen to in the Houses."

"That was no accident. You have hurt him!" The younger man's voice was sharp with reproach.

The Steward was in an unaccustomed place, unused to explaining himself to anyone, but for his beloved son's consideration he would try. "It was not meant to have happened this way. He talked back to me, out of turn. Your own backside has seen my hand many times."

"Not like this!" Boromir thought of his brother's pale and pained face, heard again a decade of unkind words and unkinder silences. "Ever he tries to please you and you think little of it. You promised her. I heard you. You promised her you would keep him safe. Is this how you do it? You criticise him and belittle what he does,and now you hurt him? By all the Valar, why?"

Denethor's pride and grief warred within him, gnawing at his fabled self control. _How dare he mention her._ "Do not speak to me of my responsibilities! I would not be keeping Gondor safe alone but for him!"

Boromir gasped. The truth was a vile and twisted thing and it could not be unsaid. Here was the stinking root from which the rancor grew. _Why would he blame him? Fara is the best of all of us. How could he not see that? _ His hands shook as he moved around the chair and advanced upon his father. "I promised her as she lay dying that I would keep him safe, I never dreamed she meant me to protect him from you."

The accusation fell like a blow. Denethor flinched and took a step back at the mounting fury in his son's eyes. _It is as the wizard said, the boy would come between us._

Years spent walking a tightrope between those he loved the most made his choice no easier, but he was certain where his love and duty lay. Boromir's voice was cold, rising with each step. "_I_ will honour my promise, if I have to beat you black and blue to do it. You no longer have the reach or strength to stand your ground against me. Do not ever lay a hand on him again."

The object of their discussion walked, humiliated, past the guards standing sentinel outside his father's door. Sick at heart, his cheek throbbing, nauseated each time the pain jolted in his wrist, Faramir walked unseen into the room. The two he loved best stood fighting like a pair of snarling dogs, the shouting loud enough he and the guards had heard it all. He could not bear the thought that he had come between them, nor could he bear what had been said: his father's truth or his brother's defence. Sometimes even a gift born of love hurts.

"Enough! Enough!" The soprano voice cracked, having yet to settle into its final baritone. The two combatants, surprised at the sound and the interruption, paused. Faramir stood very still, trembling a little from the shock. His voice was bitter but quieter now. "Thank you both, so very much. Now the entire household, nay the City, knows you think I am worthless and cannot protect myself." He fled.

* * *

the description of Orthanc is based in part upon that from the Two Towers, by J.R.R Tolkien. Saruman's words to Sauron about the machine of war are modified from the original phrases in the Two Towers, the motion picture, New Line Cinema.  
These works are of course their authors own and I derive no profit.

Thanks everyone for reading and reviewing..and Annafan and LadyP for encouragement.


	5. Chapter 5

**In which the white pawn moves and the black king plans to take it**

* * *

A small worn patch appeared to be starting in the carpet where the nervous young esquire paced that bright Lothron morning. The weather was unusually warm and windy. Khand winds people called them: hot and dusty and fey. Perhaps they were the trigger of the young man's mood, perhaps it was an unaccustomed case of nerves. Both had conspired to make that morning's practice far longer than either the esquire or his brother hoped.

The gentle baritone started again, just a shade too fast. "Here do I swear fealty and service to Gondor, and to the Lord and Steward of the realm, to speak and to be silent, to do and to let…, to let …." Faramir bit back a groan of frustration; words that should flow smoothly were caught again. He ran his fingers through his long black hair, as if the motion could soothe his nerves and his quickly beating heart. Starting again the ancient oath, he tried to be slow and measured, pacing all the while.

"to do and to let be, to come and to go, in peace or war." Once again he halted, the sequence wasn't right. "Valar, no!... it is need or plenty first!" The young Dunadan threw himself down upon the bench, hands raised in supplication, the very picture of dejection. "Boromir why can't I get this?!"

The older man eyed his brother with amusement. "Frankly little brother I am at a loss. You seem able to remember every piece of Elven doggerel written back to the Second Age so why not this?" Boromir sat with his arms crossed over his chest, an ill-concealed smirk upon his handsome face. Beside him his brother's leg vibrated with equally ill-concealed tension. He found it highly entertaining. His famously cool and composed younger brother was unnerved by such simple ceremony.

"And what did you do when you took your oath, oh mighty Captain mush-for-brains. Memorizing things for Ivanduil used to make you pee your pants. You can't get a stores order straight without a list." Faramir's unusual vehemence only made his brother's grin wider.

"Had a drink!" the captain admitted, glancing sidelong and gauging the reaction. The younger man smiled ruefully and shook his head. _Of course you did._

"Relax! You are thinking too hard, as usual." The leg shook faster as Faramir nervously ran his sweaty palms across the tops of his thighs. Boromir's amusement began to trip over to concern. His brother, known for being dry after sparring matches or hikes halfway up Mindolluin, was sweating visibly. Now _this_ was getting serious. Reaching into his tunic, he pulled out a small silver flask and silently offered it over.

Black hair waved as Faramir slowly shook his head. "That won't help." A long slow breath let out. "What time is it?"

Putting the flask away, Boromir settled for draping an arm across the tense shoulders and giving his brother a swift hug of reassurance. "A bell after the last time you asked. Why are you so worried about the time?"

"I don't want to be late." _You don't want to disappoint Father, more like. _He gave the young man's shoulders a little shake, willing him to settle. "I won't let you be late! Relax!"

The line of worry only deepened. _Gods, _thought Boromir_ it wasn't like this for me. But then Anor shines out of my arse as far as Father is concerned. 'Tis not fair._

He looked over to the tense and worried face he knew so well and wished again that his attempts to pierce their father's grief, to shine the light of reason on its dark and twisted heart, had been successful. All that had changed was Faramir, grown ever more reserved with each unkind word, until here he sat, fighting the very oath that would bind him to the father he both loved and averred. How unfair andhow perverse it seemed that his brother with the gift for law and learning but no love for soldiering would be forced by this act to fight while he, with a gift for soldiering, no patience for diplomacy and even less for governance would be forced by fate to rule. _Not fair indeed._

Faramir sighed and rested his head against his brother's broad shoulder beside for a moment. It helped a bit, as it always did, but not enough it seemed for this auspicious day. He had checked his tunic twice and his boots twice more, fixed the unruly hair that had been wild from his restless night. Now all the remained was to memorize the oath. _Just for once I want him to be proud._

A gentle knock came at the study door and two voices chorused "Come in"

Adrahil, the Prince of Dol Amroth entered with a flourish, his blue cape flowing and his grey eyes merry beneath the famous mane of snow white hair. "We made it, lads, let the party begin!" Still tall and hale despite his 83 years, he smiled upon his eldest grandsons with pride, accepting gratefully with open arms the bows and hugs of welcome.

"Grandfather! You have come just in time, we were starting to worry a bit."

_A bit?!_ Boromir's snort beside was faintly audile. Faramir kissed his grandfather's cheek in greeting, surprised to find he had to stoop.

"Indeed dear boy, the winds beat hard against us across the bay, but we made double time to Harlond. I think your aunt would have taken an oar herself if she thought it would have made a difference." They all chuckled. The determination of Ivriniel, his eldest daughter, was a thing of legend within the family.

Waving off offers of refreshment, Adrahil sat himself just a little stiffly in a chair beside the hearth, unlit in the unseasonable warmth. "We are all that pleased to be here for your oath-taking Fara…and on this day. Imagine. Did your father arrange it so?"

"No, Grandfather," Borormir replied. "He picked the day to suit the captains and we realized after it was Faramir's birthday." The two young men exchanged a look that the Prince wisely chose to ignore.

"Only once do you come of age, so we have all the more celebrate this day." Adhrahil, beamed upon them, hoping the mood would catch. He could feel the tension in the room. "Leylin is just settling the children for a bit, and later we will all be at the hall. Your cousins are so excited we may have to tie them to their seats." He paused a moment, shifting the package he had concealed within his cape. "Now, for the reason I have come." _What is a grandfather for, but to spoil the grandsons their parent tries to sternly guide?_

From beneath his cloak the Prince drew a sword, sheathed within a scabbard of faded leather. Old and worn it was, but age could not erase the beauty of the workmanship, the tengwar stamped in silver, a iolite cut in trilliant upon the belt. He held it across both hands, presenting it as if in tribute.

"As is right, Ecthelion's sword is yours Boromir, but that does not mean Fara, you should take your oath with any blade to hand." The Prince hugged him hard. "Happy birthday, dear boy. Now you have something fine to pass on to your sons in due time." Faramir's eyes were wide with surprise and his cheeks were ruddy, as a flush of surprise and pleasure crept up his face. Adrahil nodded and smiled his encouragement as his grandson hesitantly reached out to grasp the scabbard.

"Grandfather..it is… beautiful." Holding the scabbard in one hand, Faramir pulled lightly on the hilt and the blade slid out with a sigh. Another stone was set within the pommel and a swan was engraved below the tang. Examining it closely he could see knicks upon the guard and stains upon the grip, attesting to long use. The blade was as bright and sharp as the morning light that flashed silver along its length.

"I do not know well its lineage" Adrahil admitted "but it is as old as the city, made in Nogrod we think like the other swords of our house. It last belonged to your great-uncle Aglamir." _Where has the time gone?_ he wondered, thinking of his dashing, footloose youngest brother, dead now these thirty years.

"But is there no one of his family to claim it?" asked Faramir, not wanting to deprive anyone of such a precious heirloom. He felt chagrined that he knew so little of his mother's wider family. He had been too young to remember the tales she told to them at the fireside.

"Nay lad. For my brother the sea was his wife and mistress both. Well favoured he was to die within his bed of fever, despite the raids he led and pirates he put down. It would tickle him to know that a son of Finduillas' has it now."

Boromir examined closely the runes and the detail upon the scabbard, while beside him his brother swung the sword with practiced ease, testing its weight and balance. Finding he could not read the runes and wondering about the design he asked. "What is the stone, Grandfather? Do you know?"

"Indeed I do, do you not recognize it? It is the same as in my circlet. Iolite it is, from the old worn mountains of Dor-En-Ernil. Mariners have long used it as a compass to guide their way at sea. It has different colours in the northern or southern skies and is a seeing stone, much prized within our house. I do not know if will guide you on the land Faramir, but it is a good talisman ne'er the less."

The young man took back the proffered scabbard and slid the sword back in, examining the stones that shimmered sapphire and violet in the sun. Faramir hugged the Prince again, murmuring words of thanks. Looking back he caught his brother's gaze. "If only the stones could help me see the words I need to speak. If I cannot get the oath out, the sword will be for naught!"

"How so?" Adrahil gazed intently upon his grandson. His words were clearly half in jest, but the sudden tension in the young man's face was very real.

"He is having trouble with the order of the oath, Grandfather." Boromir explained quietly. _There he goes again._ Happy distraction over, Faramir had begun to pace again.

"Truly?!" His grandson's wit and scholastic abilities were well known, but as Adrahil regarded the nervous young man he thought he knew the cause. To swear an oath before his stern and demanding son-in-law would discomfit anyone. For his grandson to do so knowing every imperfection would be criticized was harder still.

"You would not be the first esquire to need help upon this day! Has no one taught you the trick we use? All the Swan Knights learn it before their big day." Both men shook their heads in puzzlement and so Adrahil rose and drew himself up to his full height. _How could it be he had first said them nearly seventy years ago?_ "Speak before doing; come before need, peace before living. If you get that sequence all the rest comes easily." A look of grateful happiness now graced both his grandson's faces. He smiled, pleased to find at least in this he could help.

As the Prince took his leave he waved away their thanks. In his wake the anxious pacing began anew, but just perhaps with somewhat less agitation.

* * *

The Great Hall in Minas Tirith was alight with sun and happy sounds early that same afternoon as families, supporters, captains and recruits all gathered for the season's solemn oath-taking. Parchments, papers, and hands were all pressed into service, those gathered fanning themselves in the already rising heat. The recruits stood loosely in a haze of nerves at the back of the hall, a dozen immaculate dress uniforms neatly pressed but already stained with damp, allowed the illusion it was due to warmth. The audience sat in rows of chairs before the Steward's dias, while on either side the Captains stood as honour guard. There was still some time. The Steward, ever punctual, was not due for several candlemarks.

Faramir could not remember the last time his entire family had been together, much less in Minas Tirith, grateful again that the Prince had made the journey just for this day. Looking upon the entire row of seats taken up by his Dol Amroth relatives, he was amazed. The Prince, his aunt Ivriniel, Imrahil and Leylin all sat expectantly. His uncle, as if feeling his nephew's gaze, turned around and winked.

The three youngest princes tried their best to behave, already threatened once by pain of removal For Elphir and Erchirion, thirteen and ten, it was not so much a hardship, but for Amrothos, six, it was a trial. He darted out repeatedly as Leylin tried vainly to keep her son in place. Baby Lothiriel, just one, behaved perfectly and slept peacefully upon her mother's lap.

The Princess gave Boromir a grateful smile as he broke ranks and scooped up his little cousin. Having effortlessly pinned the wriggling miscreant with one hand, the captain looked back to the line of recruits and saw a pale face. "Come see this." he exclaimed with a sudden flash of inspiration. Over his retreating back a childish tongue wagged at two older brothers. Boromir walked half way down the hall along the frieze of ancient kings, each visage as stern and aquiline as the last. He stopped below one distinctive statue, its hook nose and slighter height infamous amongst the tall and handsome scions of Numenor. Pointing to the lofty heights above, Boromir held a giggling Amrothos upside down. Elphir and Erchirion, unwilling to be left out, had gathered under the watchful eye of their father.

Aware he had an audience, their adored older cousin looked up. "Do you know which king this is?" he asked.

"Castamir the Usurper!" Erchirion chimed excitedly.

"Correct! Can you guess what Faramir and I did when we were your age? " Wide-eyed, the boys shook their heads solemnly.

"It was Yule and very cold and we had to play inside. I boosted Faramir up and he climbed to the top of the king."

"Up there!?" The three boys shivered with excitement, while their father looked up to the height with unease. _Up there?!_ _Valar, don't give them any ideas._

"I had a rope." added Faramir quietly, having joined them as his brother knew he would.

Trust his younger nephew to be precise on the details, thought Imrahil, relieved there had been some thought for safety if not for the priceless art. It seemed to him to epitomize how his nephews worked together. Boromir had the impetuous ideas and Faramir thought them through and put them into practice. No wonder their father considered it wise to assign them to different units.

"He put…" began Boromir. "We put…" corrected Faramir.

"a helmet and mistletoe upon King Castamir's head. " His cousins burst into laughter at the thought and even Imrahil smiled. "The lords and ladies had a quite a surprise when they gathered for the evening service." Across three dark, young heads the Steward's sons grinned at each other, remembering the boys they were, face down upon their bunks and backsides raw. They had been helpless with laughter, both at their prank and the look on Lady Castamir's face.

Catching a hurried gesture from the front, Boromir guided Amrothos back to his seat and took his place. _Mission accomplished_, he thought, looking back at the recruits and noting the smile upon his brother's face yet lingered for a while. At last a trumpet sounded and their father entered.

The solemn service soon began and into the hushed silence each new recruit in turn walked up the aisle and knelt before the Steward, reciting the oath and receiving the Steward's blessing.

Imrahil watched anxiously for a sign of welcome to light his brother-in-law's face as his own son, the last to take the oath, walked steadily to the dias. How could he fail to glimpse the worry lines between Faramir's eyes and the stiff set of his shoulders?

Leylin caught her husband's glance sidelong and they both thought back three years before, when they suddenly had Faramir to stay, recovering from his broken wrist. The boy had arrived so unlike himself; sullen and withdrawn, barely speaking even to Imrahil himself. His sword arm injured, he could not write or train for months. At first it was natural to assume his mood was mere frustration. As time went on it seemed there was something else. Leylin quickly noticed that the letters arriving dutifully from his father went unread while Boromir's were devoured in an instant.

"Do you think?..." she had asked one evening as they sat together, all their charges put to bed. "Surely not," he had replied, uncertain if he was reassuring his wife or his own self. Imrahil began to watch the boy more closely and he noted that Faramir was now wary in a way others his age were not. Something it seemed had made him grow up in hurry.

In truth, the Heir of Dol Amroth had never liked his brother-in-law but had managed a friendly civility for his sister's sake. Knowing it must be hard to raise two sons alone he had offered many times to host the boys for longer periods, always to be rebuffed. Their styles of parenting, just like their personalities, were completely opposite, he and the Steward: one stern and demanding; the other indulgent but fair. This time, however, instinct told him to keep the boy close and so he had suggested that Faramir finish his training in Dol Amroth. He was surprised to find the offer accepted. In the two years that followed his nephew had become such a part of the family the boys soon forgot to call him cousin. Faramir clearly relished being in a loud and happy home, especially with Boromir gone so often from the City. In time his easy nature returned, if more reserved than before. They had missed him terribly when time came for him to return to Minas Tirith.

Faramir at last reached the Steward's chair and knelt down, looking up into the stern and commanding face he knew so well. Denethor nodded slowly, waiting for his son to begin. The sword was pulled from its scabbard and the shining blade laid across his outstretched palms. As the young man placed his hands upon the hilt, he licked lips gone suddenly dry as the morning's winds, and took a deep breath. Loud and steady, for the first time that day the words flowed freely from his tongue.

"Here do I swear fealty and service to Gondor, and to the Lord and Steward of the realm, to speak and to be silent, to do and to let be, to come and to go, in need or plenty, in peace or war, in living or dying, from this hour henceforth, until my lord release me, or death take me, or the world end. So say I, Faramir son of Denethor, of Gondor."

Only his son before him could hear the faint rush of air as if the Steward had been holding his breath. As he had many times that afternoon the Lord looked upon the kneeling supplicant and raised his voice to carry in the hall.

"This I do hear, Denethor son of Ecthelion, Lord of Gondor, Steward of the High King. I will not forget it, nor fail to reward that which is given: fealty with love, valour with honour, oath-breaking with vengeance.'

He lifted back the sword to his son, and heard the hiss as it slid home in the scabbard. His hand was offered. Faramir closed his eyes and touched his lips to the great ring, its surface as cool as the one who wore it. To him it seemed it should have burned, despising in his heart the article and the gesture.

As he rose he felt his father's hand upon his elbow and two pairs of eyes, one clear; the other stormy grey met. It felt almost painful to stand so close, as if the unspoken gulf between them became compressed.

"Make me proud, my son." The kindest words that Denethor could find, they felt to Faramir both a benediction and a sentence. _It is done. _Duty would bind him now more surely than the battered love he felt.

"I will try Father." came the low reply. Relief and resignation washed over him like a wave, so strong that for a moment he was unsure how long his legs could hold him up.

Applause rang out around the hall, now the last oath was heard and witnessed. As the captains came forward to meet their new recruits, Boromir clasped his brother's shoulder first, thinking '_protocol be damned'_. As he turned away, he avoided the Steward's gaze and returned his brother's nod of thanks.

Faramir's new captain was Eldacar, one of the canniest and more experienced of Gondor's officers. Middle-aged, with greying fair hair and an ugly scar aside one eye, he walked over and shook his new lieutenant's hand, offering his congratulations. A shorter, green-eyed, mountain-man of Nimrais, he known to be was spare with words and praise but scrupulously fair. His men adored him.

"Come down to the barrack in a day or so. We go to Anorien and the Druadan. Need to get you organized and soon." A shrewd and practised gaze looked him up and down. "I have two other lieutenants, so you'll help me until you know the lay of the land and the company. Won't hurt to keep your eyes and ears open for a while."

"Yes sir" came the quick response. "I will be happy to do whatever is needed." Eldacar grunted his approval, pleased to find he didn't have some lordling expecting to be issuing orders.

"Good lad," The captain nodded. Eyeing Faramir for a moment, he tried and failed to reconcile the bright but reserved young man before him with the undisciplined youth the Steward had described. "Do not let him get away with anything." had been his order. Well, well, he thought, Anorien was a long way off and reports would be slow in reaching Minas Tirith. The craggy face lightened for a minute and an eyebrow raised in query "Your brother told me that you play?"

"The feadan sir.."

"Good." came the gruff answer. "Bring it along. The men are surely tired of my fiddle." With a wink, he departed, leaving a surprised and hopeful Faramir to his Dol Amroth relatives, to be wrapped in many smiles and hugs.

* * *

Dinner that night was a noisy and happy affair, held just as the sunset drew streaks of pink and gold across Mindolluin's upper slopes. Leylin and Ivriniel had conspired with the cook and housekeeper to hold the party in the garden, knowing that the guest of honour was happiest there; in the green and restful space that his mother too had loved.

A long table was laid for all the family and another to one side held presents. Faramir was last to arrive and shook his head in wonder at the sight of the family gathered around. The space seemed to sparkle with light and laughter: the many candles and torches scattered all around reflected off the silver and crystal that graced the table.

He had bowed to the older members of the family and accepted wishes from them all. Seated at the centre, Faramir was enchanted to have upon his lap a wide awake Lothiriel, whom he had only met once before. Babies and horses, reflected Boromir to himself, both seemed to find his brother's quiet warmth reassuring.

Everyone seemed intent to get along. Denethor, Ivriniel, and Adrahil conducted a lively and long discussion about trade tariffs amongst the southern fiefs. Boromir and Imrahil compared the merits of various captains they had served under. Leylin expertly mediated a three-way argument amongst her sons, while describing to Faramir a new book she had recently acquired.

As the first of several courses were served, Erchirion eyed suspiciously a liver pate and asked if it was the same as in Dol Amroth, the birthday boy got to pick his favourite foods for dinner. It was Boromir who answered when the laughter died down. "No 'Chirion the cook had to choose, with Faramir his favourite food is anything in reach." They laughed again and he ducked in jest as his younger brother reached over and tried to cuff him.

After the meal came the presents; the younger cousins only too happy to help in this. From his Aunt Rini came a book of his favourite Sindarin poems, printed upon oilcloth and bound in treated leather, made especially to weather a campaign. From his brother he received a new bow and quiver, the latter of black leather and stamped with the silver tree of Gondor. From the three young cousins he received a fine new bridle, bought on their own after a week of chores under Ivriniel's direction.

He had already that afternoon received a present from his father and uncle and aunt. Blindfolded at their request, all three young boys had excitedly pulled him toward the stables, not realizing he could tell exactly where they were bound by the sound and scent.

There in a stall stood a tall but lithe Dol Amroth war stallion. Grey with dappled flanks, a darker mane and tail and deep dark eyes, he was of the line of mounts favoured by Adrahil's Swan Knights. Boromir had whistled, exclaiming at his beauty, but was the first to laugh when Elphir explained to Faramir "Grandfather said you could have a gray because you aren't as big as cousin Boromir."

"His name is Mithros" Erchirion explained and Faramir nodded, patting the small, proud head and murmuring low in Sindarin, as the great animal trembled slightly under his unfamiliar touch. The Prince advised his grandson to give Mithros time to adjust before taking him out to ride and train. "He had the hardest crossing of us all. Mind you give him some days yet to get his land legs back." Overwhelmed by the generous gift, Faramir had hugged Imrahil and Leylin tightly. His father had offered his hand to shake.

Now in the twilight, surrounded by the happy noise of the whole family, Faramir realized this was what he missed most about his mother's childhood home. Not the sound of the sea or the view but the laughter and teasing and easy banter. Not for the first time he regretted turning down Grandfather's offer to commission as a Swan Knight. But really that had been only a fantasy. His father would never have allowed it. With a heartfelt sigh, he settled back to enjoy the precious evening while it lasted.

* * *

The White Kine in the third circle was a favourite haunt of the Steward's young heir and his first choice of destination late that starlight night, the new lieutenant in tow. As they entered, Geran the barkeep nodded a solemn greeting, and for a moment inclined his head in question. The Captain shook his head just slightly. At the Kine they made no fuss, not for the heir of the Steward, an outland merchant, or the local cutpurse. That was in truth its attraction, everyone kept themself to themself. All that mattered was to keep ones peace, ignore ones neighbour and tip Nell heartily when she brought the drinks.

As they grabbed an empty table by the window, Faramir looked around. The ceiling was low and its beams were covered in knicks from knives and the smoke of years. The seats felt as worn as the flagstones, polished smooth by generations of serious drinkers. The room was dim, the few windows set deep and the white stone was a dusky grey, smoke and shoulders having stained the walls. The Kine was not noted for its ambience, but it was known for its ale, which was not watered, and its wine, which was even better.

The low hum of conversation all about suddenly stilled in anticipation, as a panelled door Faramir had not noticed opened in the wall beside the bar. The White Kine was also famous for its gaming. Not officially famous of course, being against the City laws, but well known amongst the serious gamblers none the less. Light and laughter spilled out from a back room beyond and an expectant pause arose. Nearby a knot of men stood and were escorted through to the tables. As he watched their procession, Boromir's fingers fairly itched to get in the game. _Not tonight,_ he thought. Tonight was for serious drinking.

The buxom, fair-haired lady of the house put down a pair overflowing tankards with a wink. "Young lord, good to see you back. Your guest is?" Nell would not normally ask, but Faramir was just of age and to his chagrin looked younger still. Geran was very careful to have an outward sense of propriety. It would not do to have the Tower Guard feel the need to investigate.

"My brother Faramir, seventeen today, Nell." Boromir quietly introduced them. The barmaid apprised the young man with a practised eye for subterfuge, noting the resemblance and the uniform. He would do. "Welcome to the White Kine, my lord." Faramir murmured his thanks, surprised to find himself enjoying the sense of freedom. A freedom that came responsibility he realized: there now being more establishments from which he could carry his brother home.

Boromir eyed the foaming head with relish and raised the tankard in a toast. "Happy birthday little brother." He drank and gave a satisfied sigh. "Aah now that is the stuff. What do you think?" Faramir sampled his own, and with an appreciative look sampled some more. " This really good."

"Best in the City" Boromir agreed, quaffing half the tankard in one go. "Drink up! You said you would keep up tonight. My turn to escort you home, tonight of all nights."

Faramir, shook his head and eyed his brother's cup warily. _I'll never keep up if he keeps going like this_. Contrary to Boromir's oft-repeated impression, Faramir did not dislike drinking, he simply found it pointless to drink too fast or too much. Neither made any difference to the final effect as far as he could tell, inexplicably mostly sober at the end of the night no matter what he did. Boromir seemed to think that if he really set his mind to it the outcome would be different. Rather reluctantly he had agreed for once to try.

They talked long that evening of the day and all its enjoyments, skirting around the serious, knowing that time spent together would be all the more precious very soon. When Boromir had refilled their tankards from a new pitcher for a second time, he judged the moment right. Leaning forward, resting his chin upon one solid fist, he gazed steadily and seriously across the table. 'Have you done yet what I suggested?" he asked pointedly.

The younger man could not help the groan that escaped his lips, nor the embarrassed flush that crept up his face. Sitting deeper back within his chair, he examined the beam overhead for a moment and waited out the intemperate response upon his lips. He knew his brother meant well, but at times he could be as single-minded as the tavern's namesake. "Boromir, stop pushing." The unusually frigid tone would have stopped most people in their tracks, let alone the flinty look. In equal measures obstinate and oblivious, his brother was undeterred.

"I can tell by your face you haven't. Brother mine, this is serious. I have told you how the conversations will go. You will be blooded in battle soon and after the talk will turn to other things. First blood always leads to talk of other firsts. You can't lie worth a orc's arse. A lieutenant who is a virgin, and hardly drinks. They will make mincemeat of you in the ranks."

"Keep your voice down!" the flush intensified, as did the look of annoyance. Faramir scanned the room. Their fellow patrons were thankfully busy with their drinks. _He really is not going to leave this alone_, he thought with growing dismay.

"I still don't get why you walked out on that girl I bought you last year." Boromir lowered his voice, his expression one of genuine puzzlement. "The girls at the Mallos Blossom are experienced and discreet, they will do anything."

The last thing Faramir wanted was to be reminded of that unhappy night, the events and the excruciating discussion with his brother afterward. Anger faded but the grey eyes remained troubled. "I am not like you. Bedding just any girl that breathes does not interest me."

"They need to do more than breathe, little brother." Boromir's wicked smile stilled at the dirty look he received. Surprised to find his tankard empty again, he reached and refilled both their cups. This time Faramir's had been hardly touched. "Has there been no serving maid in the kitchens who struck your fancy?"

"You know Father would flay me if word got back. There is no point in even trying." Allowing his brother had a point, Boromir regarded him closely for a moment.

"You don't fancy men do you?"

"Boromir!" The look on his brother's face was priceless. Equal parts shock, offence, and exasperation. Good, he thought, chuckling at the reaction. Maybe it would goad him into action. "No I thought not. Then for the love of all that is holy, what is the problem?"

_I don't know! _ thought Faramir unappily. He picked up his tankard and drained it, hoping for once that oblivion would lie at the bottom of the cup. Holding it a moment, he thought of what to say. _He means well but does not realize I lie better than he thinks when pressed. _Looking at the expectant face before him, he cleared his throat. _"_I just need more time to find the right girl in the right house. You need to leave me be to sort it out myself."

Seemingly satisfied with the response, a grin spread across the Captain's face. He sat back and raised his tankard in salute. "Good. Now we've settled that problem, let's work on your tolerance for drink. Order another round! See if you can keep up this time!"

* * *

Faramir awoke the next morning at the third bell after sunrise, fully expecting to be hungover. As his senses adjusted to the half light, he heard the sound of the palace stirring from without the hall_. _ Lying still upon his bed, the sheets tossed and twisted around him, he carefully took stock. His mouth was certainly dry and his limbs felt tired, but that could simply be the lack of sleep. What time had they returned? He remembered a cock crowing as they walked back up through the quiet City. When he found his bed at last, sleep had been long coming, agonized as he was about his brother's advice.

He turned his head experimentally against the pillow. It was fine, no headache at all. He groaned. How many pitchers had they gone through? How many had he had himself? Two, he thought, and felt nothing at all. He really didn't understand it. Another night of partying and he was stone cold sober. It was getting tiresome.

Rising quickly before his courage failed him, Faramir washed away the smell of stale ale and hearth smoke and dressed in a fresh tunic and breeches. Next he pulled on his boots, gave them a swipe with a cloth and dragged a comb through his hair. It wouldn't do to look unkempt this morning, determined as he was to launch the plan devised the night before. As he headed out into the palace halls, he paused and listened at Boromir's door nearby. A faint sound of snoring could be heard, cresting and falling in time to his brother's deep breathing. Good. He would sleep for hours more, the coast was clear.

Grabbing a bite of breakfast from the kitchen he went out into the city, nervous but resolute as he walked quickly down, thinking once again of their conversation at the Kine. The issue was making him crazy and he too wanted it settled before they mustered out. It seemed he had to find a willing partner who wasn't in the Steward's palace and wasn't from the houses. A tall order, and one that needed discretion to orchestrate.

He stopped in the 6th circle before the elegant townhouse of the Duchess of Lossarnach and hesitantly knocked. They knew each other well, having met countless times at council meetings, festivals and dinners. Famous for her discretion about her reputedly numerous indiscretions, his instinct said the duchess could be trusted and might be sympathetic. She was, in truth, one of the few adults in the City Faramir felt he could to really talk to. His brother just didn't seem to understand and his uncle was leaving soon. The idea of confiding in his father simply didn't bear considering.

The door was answered by an elderly gentleman in the formal livery of Lebenin. Having ascertained that the Duchess was home, he was shown in and led to a bright and colourful salon, the very antithesis of the dark and neglected rooms of the Steward's palace.

After several minutes of anxious waiting on Faramir's part, Amerith, the Lady of Lossarnach and Lebinin strode gracefully into the room. She was tall and elegant, with auburn hair and green eyes, dressed as always at the height of fashion. Hers was a sad tale, he knew. Married at sixteen and widowed by twenty, a dozen years later she had still not remarried after her young husband had been killed in battle. Heir to both Lossarnach in her own right and the rich fields of Lebenin through her marriage, she had not been content to sit and pine. The wealthiest noble in Gondor after the Prince of Dol Amroth, she used her position and power on Council to both aid and influence his father. He knew the Steward was by turns both pleased and frustrated at her efforts.

The lady was most surprised, but not displeased, to find the handsome young second son of the Steward in her salon. Green eyes examined him appraisingly, as a captain would a new recruit. Tall he had always been but now the young man had filled out quite a bit, lean muscle added to his narrow frame after months of training. With his black hair falling in waves down to his shoulders and his clear grey eyes she thought he looked even more noticeably like his mother. He also, she noted curiously, looked extremely nervous.

With pleasure she accepted the impeccably correct bow and friendly peck upon her cheek. "Lord Faramir, welcome. Please take a seat." She gestured to a nearby couch, and seated herself, her skirts arrayed around in regal precision, In the months since they had seen each other last he had grown so much she found she had to look up to him, perched hesistantly on the edge of a green and gold settee. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit? Your father is well?" she asked, opening with the formalities.

"Indeed, he is, Lady Amerith, as always." The reply was steady, belying the faint tremor in his long fingers where they lay against brocade seat.

"And your brother? I hear his captaincy is a great success." She smiled broadly for his benefit, but inwardly she sighed, remembering the twittering girls swooning over Boromir at the last ball. Predictably and tediously his marriage prospects were the dominant topic of conversation this season. Really, she thought, anyone with a half a brain could see the Steward's heir was not the least bit interested in the ladies of the court. Looking on the fair and sensitive face before her, she thought it might only be a season or two before it was Faramir's turn to be hunted.

"Yes, my Lady, he is doing well." The response was rather spare and conventional. Although quiet and reserved in a group, she had never found Faramir to lack in conversation, particularly one on one. She eyed the young man thoughtfully, wondering at the reason for his reticence.

"Are you here on an errand for your father?" Could that explain it? Something Denethor didn't want to do or say himself? That would be like the man, she knew, sending others out to do the dirty work.

The object of her scrutiny shook his head and had to swallow hard to get the words out. "No lady. I….I have a personal problem that I thought perhaps you might advise on."

Surprised, the duchess sat back with a quiet rustle of silk and stifled a smile. _So that was it._ _Today appears to be rather more interesting than I expected. _She quite liked to be surprised. Noticing his gaze strayed repeatedly to her servant, she thought she should take pity upon her guest, now plucking unconsciously at the trim on his cuff.

"May I offer you some refreshment?" Beckoning the older man forward, she thought quickly of what the young man might like. "Willen, please bring us some cider and the last of the honeycakes."

"Right away, my lady." The gentleman glided away soundlessly and Amerith turned back. Smoothing an invisible crease in her gown, she gave Faramir a moment to collect himself. When it seemed the set of his shoulders had relaxed a fraction, she gestured for him to begin again.

"You know I will join the army in some weeks for my first campaign?" The clear grey eyes at last met hers.

"Congratulations. I have heard you will be under Eldacar. He is a fine officer, the men seem to respect and like him well" Seeing Faramir's nod, she tested the waters a little. "You are… happy about the commission are you not?" She was well aware of the dysfunction in the Steward's family. Little that passed within the City or the kingdom escaped Amerith's notice or her network.

Now settled with a glass of cider, Faramir fidgeted, turning the glass within his hands and trying to think of what to say. The duchess waited patiently, amused to recognize Denethor's habit when he too was thinking hard.

"Yes…It is just, my brother is concerned because of my, umm, status." A flush began to creep up his creeks. "He thinks it would be ill advised to enter the ranks inexperienced." The final words game out in a rush, as if the speed might lessen the discomfort.

Auburn eyebrows raised in surprise. This was unusual. Most young men of his age at court had long past discovered the delights of the female sex. "And you thought I could help advise you on this…problem?"

"Yes my Lady…" The embarrassed flush had now reached the tips of his ears and headed to his hairline.

"Amerith, please. Surely we are well past titles today?" How unfortunate it was that this gentle young man was caught between two extremes; a brash brother as different from him as chalk and cheese, and a cold, distracted, demanding father. Was it any wonder that they were the ones having this rather awkward conversation?

"Amerith, Father would flog me if I sought someone in the palace." It seemed hardly possible but his cheeks flamed all the redder. The cup twirled but did not shake. "I thought…I thought you might know how I could meet a girl from another family, that might be interested." Amerith bit back a laugh. This was too absurd. Did he realize what he was asking? She looked at the fair face lined with worry and the agonized grey eyes. Yes it seemed so, and although she did not doubt that there were girls who would be very interested in the second son of the Steward, it seemed quite odd that he would think it the obvious solution.

"And what about the ladies of the houses?" she asked "That is where most young men of your position go. Surely that is simpler?"

'I know," he admitted quietly. "I have tried." The words came out somewhat strangled. He looked down and examined the bottom of the glass minutely. "It is not that I'm not interested..but I just… can't.' Embarrassment and misery were plain upon his face. Not without sympathy, she offered the best advice she knew.

"Faramir, you are young, you are over thinking this. This anxiety sets up in a young man's mind. That is usually the problem, not the particular girl. Go down to one of the better houses and drink a little more. You will be less anxious and your problem will a settle itself quite naturally."

Instead of helping, she had seemingly touched a nerve. He bolted up and turned away, a stricken look upon his face. "That won't help, I can't seem to get drunk either!" Walking quickly to the door, he turned back to meet her gaze, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. _How mistaken his plan had been_. "I am sorry Amerith, I am making a mess of this. My apologies for disturbing you." Startled by the intensity of emotion upon his face, she rose and meant to stop him going, but already his back was turned, heading for the hallway.

_Unable to get drunk_, _his body burning every source of energy like wildfire. _ _Unable to bed the ladies of the houses._ Realization dawned. An image flashed briefly in her mind. Another young and virgin, miserable, grey-eyed, son of Numenor, this time upon their wedding night._ Oh Taras. _Of course, she thought, he is his father's son in this. He has the gift of Hurin.

_"Faramir" _quickly she sent out the thought, unsure what training he would have had.

He stopped short and whirled around, a looked of shocked surprise upon his face. No, she was not wrong.

" Amerith, I..I heard you?…" He hardly knew what to say, utterly startled by the intrusion.

"Yes, yes you did Faramir. As you can tell, the House of Hurin is not the only noble house of ancient lineage to preserve the blood of Westernesse. I have the gift as well, as did my husband. Some few of us do." She looked up into the wide grey eyes and spoke gently.

"Did you never think that this was the root of your problem? Of course you cannot bed a head-blind woman who does not love you. No man with the gift can. It is why your own father married late, why he waited twenty years until he found your mother."

Total bewilderment met her statement. "What is head-blind?" he asked.

It was Amerith's turn to be shocked. _Was it possible he had not been taught?_ "Your father has spoken to you about your gift has he not? You have been trained to shield yourself?"

He shook his head in confusion. "No. It was my mother who told me a little of the dreams. Sometimes I hear or see things, but I have never thought it was something to direct, just a type of waking dream." Faramir bit his lip, thinking suddenly of the conversation with Mithrandir that he would never divulge. _He said I read him too, is this what he meant?_

Amerith was stunned._ Sweet merciful Yavane, he has no idea. _A sickening thought followed and a sliver of fear touched her heart. _They are sending him off to fight, untrained and unguarded. _Reaching out, she placed a hand upon his arm and led him over to a seat. As they both sat down, she sought for words of explanation.

"Head-blind is an old term for those who cannot see into others hearts and minds, as we do. Faramir your father knows all about this, he himself has been trained. Your grandfather lacked the gift, it does sometimes skip generations, but he understood the need. I believe he sent your father to Lorien to be tutored as a boy."

"Father? He has never said. I didn't know." A flicker of pain moved behind his eyes. "We talk very little these days."

The revelation had clearly shocked him, his paleness all the more stark after the flush he had carried some minutes before. She rose and walked over to an elaborately inlaid table, poured a large glass of brandy for each of them. Holding out the glass she ordered him "Drink it all, very fast and it just might work a little."

He considered the glass for a moment and then did as bidden, throwing most of it back, choking as the fiery liquid burned its way down. After a moment he was surprised to find he felt a little steadier. "This is very good."

"It should be." she said matter of factly. "I won it off your uncle in a card game." A ghost of a smile lit his features and a bit of colour returned to his cheeks.

_That is better._ Taking several sips of her own, she turned back to the matter at hand. "Faramir, you have an ability to read other men's minds, to see and speak in a different way. It is a skill that needs training, both in the sending and receiving. Most important is to know how to shield yourself. There are also manners and rules, codes of conduct as go along with any skill. You do not just walk into another person's mind unannounced. In point of fact what I just did amongst the Eldar would be considered the height of rudeness, if one did not know the other person had the gift." She smiled ruefully. "I do apologize, Faramir, but I needed to know."

Pursing her lips in concentration for a moment, she made a quick decision. "When do you ship out?

"In two weeks. Why?"

"Well then, young Dunadan, you came looking for an education and you shall have it, although not what you had thought. I think I will need to clear my schedule. Two weeks will have to suffice for the basics. As for your other goal, I expect that will sort itself after we have dealt with your needed education." _And, _she thought silently to herself_ after I have dealt with your father._

* * *

When the Lady of Lossarnach was admitted that very eve to the Steward of Gondor's study, a single glance was all it took for her to know this was bound to be an unpleasant encounter. Denethor, stern and unyielding at the best of times, now carried a look of strain about his eyes and mouth that bespoke a bone deep fatigue. She wondered, yet again, what it was he did for the hours he spent alone in the tower of his forefather? It did not seem to help his temper or his demeanor.

The Steward looked up wearily. The duchess was the last person he felt minded to engage after a long and tiring evening gathering knowledge. He would have to be on his toes. "My Lady, this is an unusual hour. Can our business not wait until the morrow? Or have you learned of something amiss that needs my attention now? "

"Not with the kingdom, my Lord Steward." Tightly shielded, only her gaze and her voice belied some of anger she was feeling. "Can you guess how I spent my morning? " There was just a touch of acid in her tone.

"Indeed not my lady, you have so many pastimes, I am long past count." Undeterred by his impatience at the intrusion, her sense of urgency and alarm would not let the matter rest.

"Your younger son was in my salon."

Grey eyes widened at this news. His mouth twisted, the scorn seemed automatic.

"So that is where the boy got too. Boromir was looking for him." His tone and expression only served to irk her more.

"Denethor do you ever actually speak to your son? How is it that he is come of age and you have not talked to him of his gift? And more importantly its implications. I cannot believe you haven't recognized it. The poor boy has had to discover for himself how it can unman him."

"Has he indeed?" A black eyebrow raised, his face showed no sympathy at all. "How do you know this, Amerith? Has Faramir become the latest toy you dally with in your quest to forget Taras? They seem to be getting younger."

The mental slap rang in his skull, stinging just as surely as if she had been close enough to hand to reach him. Stunned by its force, in its wake the tension drained out of him like water. Fatigue had made him careless. He dared not push her too far. "That was uncivil of me." he murmured by way of apology.

"Indeed it was and speaks volumes about what you think of your own son." Green eyes flashed but the apology was accepted. "No he is not my toy, and he is assuredly your responsibility. It is unconscionable what you doing by your negligence. Some day soon he will be on a field of battle, one filled with the agonies of dying, stricken, terrified men and he has not been taught to shield!?"

The Steward at least had the grace to look abashed. "He has some natural shields., Amerith…he can shield from me at times." She gave him a long and level stare…_And what does that say about you, _she thought_, that he naturally blocks out the one he should love the most?_

'Oh and you think that sufficient to stand up on a field of war? Already the crossings are thick with Southron parties, orc raids grow in number every day." They both knew the details in the dispatches, the likelihood of battle soon. "I will not stand by and let another young man suffer as Taras did. You were his captain Denethor. You saw what it did to him. It nearly broke his reason. At least his family could claim true ignorance as their excuse. Would you not lift a finger to spare your own son that torment?"

"That is why I am sending him to Druadan" said Denethor mildly. "I am not a monster, Amerith whatever you might think."

"No, not yet, but you are getting perilously close through sheer neglect." Two pairs of grey and angered eyes spit fire at each other for a moment. The Steward was the first to look away.

"It seems I must do what you cannot and train him now before he leaves. It will have to suffice. But in exchange you will accept my one demand."

"Which is?"

"Do for him what your father did for you when he found you had the gift. Give him the freedom to choose a woman he loves to marry and the time to wait until it happens."

Denethor waved a hand in acquiescence. "Granted. Boromir is the heir. The greatest advantage to gain lies in alliance with him. Soon it will matter little. I am close to having arranged his marriage."

The duchess was startled by the news. Not word had come to her. "Does he know?" From the look in his father's eyes, she could tell the young captain did not.

Amerith shook her head. Was he really so blind to both his sons? "Denethor, you spend so much time in thought upon the kingdom you miss what is under your nose. Boromir will not thank you for not consulting him on this." Already set upon the road, she chose to continue whatever the effect. "Have you not noticed that he drinks too much? Have you never thought to wonder what it is that he does not want, what it is he seeks to escape while he can? Be careful lest your constant demands over weigh what even his great heart can give."

Fury fairly crackled in the air. "How dare you? Lady it seems I have allowed you overmuch liberty, despite our long association. I am doing all I can every moment of the day to sustain Gondor, though I have no mother for my sons and no wife to stand beside me. Do not criticize that which you do not understand."

Too late Denethor realized what he had said. Amerith had gone very pale. When she spoke it was as if her words turned to frost upon the air.

"Lord Steward you are not the only person in this kingdom to have lost your spouse untimely. At the least you are fortunate to have something of her left. You have two beautiful and well-grown sons, both as much of her as you. I have nothing. Nothing but my memories and his estates to run. Think on that, as you swim in your selfish, self-indulgent grief. You are close to squandering what you have." She turned on her heel and strode from the room without his leave, wishing the truth for once would usually too proud to hear it.

The Steward shook out his tired shoulders and bent again to his ever present work. For some long minutes he did not concentrate on the task before him, his gaze returned again and again to the door the duchess had departed through.

* * *

The short and swarthy Southron man in stained and ragged cloak stood quietly in the shadows, happy to be ignored for the moment, as a tempest of fury swirled around the tower room. Saruman was not pleased with his captain's report. The Uruk party had failed again to capture their prize and the wizard was getting impatient.

"What does one yellow-hair matter over another, master? The black and dirty Uruk was confused. "Master said 'bring me the yellow-hair alive". I have brought two, and they are alive. Will they not do?" Silently he hoped they were still alive. They had been when he had left. The troop was hungry, but perhaps not that hungry quite as yet.

"No they will not" the wizard snapped. "I need the one I asked for." Realizing further discussion with this dim-witted first breed was probably pointless, he thought carefully for a moment. "Are they whole?" The black head nodded. "Give them to the breeding pits. I have no other need for them. Now get out and think more carefully next time." The Uruk captain grovelled at the show of mercy. Weak-kneed with relief he scuttled out.

Saruman beckoned forward to the spy, it was his turn. In his low and rasping speech he described much of what he'd seen in his months upon the road. Doings of the Shire and Bree, the northern roads, were all carefully relayed. He had an excellent memory, such was his worth to this chancy and uncertain master.

When he turned to what to him was a mere curiosity, the wizard sat up in startlement, his gaze intent and asking for every detail. The birthday party for the Baggins had been a lavish affair, many many guests and presents, the food and drink had freely flowed. He described the finale of the old man's fireworks, a large red-gold dragon flying out of a mountain, breathing fire and circling over the Hobbits' heads. He described the Baggin's speech, _"I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve." _and the bewildered looks upon the guests as he said goodbye and promptly vanished. The wizard thoughtfully stroked his beard as he handed a large purse across, well pleased with the report.

Saruman, once alone again with just his plots, thought back to his council with the Steward the day before. His sons were grown to manhood, both now sent out to fight. He did not yet know for certain what tool the hobbit had, but he had vanished. And Mithrandir it seemed had ages of time to spend with the little people. Why? _He is not addled, he not yet Radagast_, the wizard thought. There could only be one reason that made sense. A finger of fear twined with desire and snaked up his immortal spine. The Ring. It had to be. It was time. It was time to take another pawn.

* * *

**a/n**: The line of Bilbo's speech is from 'The Fellowship of the Ring" by J.R.R. Tolkien and his is ...etc. etc. Thanks to Borys for discussion on matters military and sorry for the long delay...busy time. I will be going away shortly for work for a month with no access to internet or fanfic (Eeep!). Promise to post when I am back..likely late July-early August. Happy summer everyone


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